


Touch of God

by chewysugar



Category: Dark-Hunter Series - Sherrilyn Kenyon, Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Brotherly Love, Crossover, Demon Sex, Falling In Love, First Time, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Rape, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Secret Past, Skinny Dipping, Sleeping Together, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-06 06:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 87,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11594994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: A young, naive angel fell from Heaven in an act of rebellion to save a soul in torment.A man became a god, but lost the one shred of love he'd found in his nightmare of a human life.Castiel and Acheron meant the universe to each other in the days before recorded history. One night they reunite by happenstance at Sanctuary, opening old wounds and making way for new scars. But the best thing about such injuries?They can be healed.





	1. Chapter 1

"Dude, that big motherfucker in the corner has been making eyes at your betrothed since we sat down."

Sam's voice was a barely audible whisper under the live band tearing through their set of symphonic metal.

Dean scanned the crowd. "You'll have to be more specific. And he's not my betrothed. Least not until he puts a damn ring on it."

The latter protest notwithstanding, Dean wasn't mincing words. It seemed as if that every person over six feet in height had flocked to the bar known as Sanctuary that night. Sam could well have been talking about any number of the preternaturally tall, strong looking patrons.

Hell, even the women looked like they could have put Nicole Kidman to shame in terms of height. The patrons and staff had been as interested in the Winchesters and their angelic blood brother as they were of any newcomer. Nobody had made any overtly unfriendly advances in the twenty minutes since they'd been seated, but that was because no one had gone out of their way to give any real indication of their presence being anything remarkable.

While not sporting anything beyond an accidental thought for his angel, Dean was still protective of Castiel. He took his time surveying the crowd watching the band play, trying to discern for himself just who among the guests Sam had been speaking.

Out of all the tall brick houses enjoying their beers and onion rings, Dean narrowed his suspicions down to...almost every last one of them. If only Cas hadn't sauntered off to the john--Dean could have caught the voyeuristic fuck eyeballing the angel in the act.

"Drawing a blank. It's like looking for a Viking in a room full of Scandinavians."

"Same shit, jerk. And it's that one over there. The one with the crazy hair and the Armani shades."

Dean's gaze fell on someone who was just shy of seven feet tall. Like most of the patrons, he wore black. The only difference between he and the other mountains was that his shoulder length hair was, as Sam had pointed out, red as a cherry. Dean couldn't tell whether or not the big gorilla was even looking his way because, as Sam had pointed out, the guy's eyes were obscured by thick, dark shades.

Dean grimaced. "Good one, bitch. How exactly can you tell that he was scoping Cas out from behind the Ray Charles specs?"

"There's just something about him," Sam said. "Like some kind of feeling."

"Steady there, Miss Cleo. I don't want you to start reading fortunes at Jackson Square with those powers of perception."

"Fine. Let your boyfriend get jumped by Godzilla."

"Cas can handle himself. And he's _not_ my boyfriend."

Dean had the misfortune of saying this as their waitress set down a plate of fries. The eldest Winchester could have knocked his brother's teeth in, given that their server was just his type--tall, leggy, busty, with curly blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes.

"Thanks," Dean said gratefully. Giving the waitress his trademark little boy grin, he added, "Head case, my brother. He's got juvenile dementia, as well. Good rule of thumb is to ignore anything he says."

"Shame," the waitress said. "I was getting all antsy thinking about you doing the sheet shimmy with that broody, dark haired dude."

"Well, we're not boyfriends but we're down for a Devil's Threeway. Might even do tongue if it'll please you."

"Thanks, but my boyfriend--the one that I _do_ have, incidentally--wouldn't like that, even if he got in in the action."

"Boyfriend? What's his name?"

"Fang. He's here too, by the way." She pointed to the bar. As if alerted by telepathy, a tall man with olive skin and long, dark hair turned around. The sheer devotion in his hazel eyes--along with the glower he shot Dean's way--made it abundantly clear that he was, in fact, the waitress's boyfriend.

Dean stared at his bottle of beer, muttering in defeat.

Rolling his eyes, Sam glanced at the name tag on the waitresses shirt.

"Uh, excuse me, Aimee. But who exactly is that guy over there? The one with the bright red hair and the glasses?"

"Who, Ash?" Aimee smiled as if Sam's question were the most amusing thing she'd heard all century. "He's just a wanderer. I know he looks really intimidating, and I guess he can be when he wants to, but he's really nice. If you don't piss him off, anyway."

"What's with the sunglasses?" Dean, having been shot down, seemed determined to be in a fit of sullens for the remainder of the night. "He trying to tell us not to switch the blade on the guy in the shades or something?"

Aimee rolled her eyes. "No. It's just his choice. And you should respect it. Especially seeing as how you three are outsiders."

"In a den of wolves," Dean muttered.

Smiling mysteriously, Aimee turned and walked back to the bar, but not before saying, "Yes, actually. Wolves and other nasties."

Sam smirked at Dean's defeated grimace. "Fang," he repeated cheekily. "That's gotta be the first for you."

"Shut up, bitch," Dean sighed. His gaze strayed to the corner again. Dean paused, lowering his beer bottle to the table. The band changed to the next song; the lights went down, and when next the floor of Sanctuary was illuminated in light, the man called Ash had gone.

And Cas still hadn't returned from the bathroom.

Dean made to stand up, but at that moment, three men sauntered over to their table and plopped into the vacant chairs just as comfortably as if they’d been reserved for them.

“Look, Talon. Newcomers. And they’re wearing layers even though it’s been sitting in the high sixties all week long.”

“Adorable.”

Both men were blonde; the one who had spoken first had shorter hair and a cleft in his chin; his friend sported a pierced ear and spoke with a pronounced Irish cadence to his voice.

“Lovely,” Dean said. “The Chippendale revue is gracing our presence. We oughta consider ourselves lucky, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes, shooting the two blonde men and their dark haired friend a look that tried desperately to convey that he was not, in fact, at all related to his older brother. At least not by choice.

The man call Talon smirked. “And they’re mouthy, too. I smell trouble. We might have to clean their clocks, Kyrian.”

“Kyrian and Talon,” Dean said dryly. “And what’s your name,” he added to the dark haired man. “Blueberry?”

The dark haired man shot Dean a wide-set smile, but said nothing.

“Careful,” Kyrian warned. “Val can get mighty ugly if you cross him the wrong way.”

Val’s eyes narrowed. “Must you drag up our sordid family history? We’re brothers now. Brothers are supposed to get along and drink beer together and play golf in criminally unflattering shorts.”

“Brothers in-law,” Kyrian said. Sam rather felt as if Kyrian were a kindred spirit if his relationship with Val was so lukewarm.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said loudly, “but what the fuck is going on around here? What you looking for anyway? There’s no damn room at this table for the three of you, and our friend’s going to come sauntering back any moment now.”

The three men glanced at one another.

“Just to make a point,” Kyrian said. “Behave yourselves. Don’t bother anyone—especially Aimee. Fang went a little on the wild side a while back and he’s just itching to rip someone’s throat out.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

Val, however, seemed genuinely curious. “You’re friend? That dark haired character in the Sam Spade coat?”

“Yeah. He’s in the john right now.”

“Unless he can turn invisible, he’s not,” Val said. “I just got back from there.”

Sam saw the worry in his brother’s eyes. And when Dean got worried, he tended to exercise it with his usual tactlessness.

“Really,” he said. “You scope out a lot of guys in the men’s room there, Val?”

Instead of exploding with anger, Val merely shrugged. Sam rather thought he felt the dark haired man kicking Kyrian under the table—the blonde man had snorted into his mug of beer.

“Not me, no,” Val said. “You might want to ask my darling in-law. He’s the one with the Greek roots. You know how those men carried on.”

But Dean didn’t have any time to sit and barb anymore, not when Cas had seemingly up and vanished. And at the same time that the man called Ash had likewise made himself scarce.

Had Dean crossed the floor, he would have found that his angel wasn't in the men's room anymore, just as Val had said. In fact, Cas had detoured down the spacious hallway and into the alleyway behind Sanctuary the second he'd caught sight of Ash sitting in the corner. 

Down through the twisting labyrinth of shadowy bystreets, and from there, further to the main roads of the French Quarter. Life teemed ceaselessly in The Big Easy; lights as numerous and shining as the scores of cultures and sub-cultures that dwelled within the city lined its streets. Cas, what with his appreciation for humanity, would have taken time to enjoy the painted canvas of New Orleans--to simply be among the people.

But tonight, with a stiff breeze ghosting from the Gulf and his heart suddenly heavy, Castiel felt more as if he were wandering a graveyard of his buried hopes and regrets, rather than the streets of New Orleans.

He should have known, should have sensed the presence of someone so otherworldly and powerful. He'd felt the pulse in the air emanating from Sanctuary--before Dean had even parked the Impala, Cas had discerned the innumerable species who called the building home. Weres and shape shifters of every description--Dark Hunters and Daimons and Apollites--creatures and beings the likes of which would have made Sam and Dean's heads fall off had they known their entire sordid history, or even of their existence.

Perhaps the air had been too profuse with the supernatural stew for him to have picked anything up?

Or maybe Cas had just been in his present body for too long and lost his ability to detect something so ancient and borderline prehistoric.

A signature like Acheron's was difficult for even most humans to miss. Not that they felt the same tidal wave of power that Cas and his ilk got hit with. They would simply feel the respect that such a powerful, imposing figure demanded and shirk away, and that was only if they didn't catch him without his glasses on. In that instance, it would be more detrimental to Ash than to anyone else.

Alone, Castiel wandered the streets without aim or destination. He knew Dean and Sam would be worried if he didn't come back. At the moment, he could have cared less. Momentary selfishnesses such as these were few and far between, so the angel felt no qualms about indulging in them.

In any event, neither of the Winchester's would understand how it was that he now felt. These wounds had been inflicted within him long before the Winchester's had even been a thought in the grand design of the universe. As a matter of fact, the world as mankind knew it had scarcely existed.

To say that it was complicated was a gross understatement.

Castiel finally stopped at a vacant corner overlooking the Mississippi. The breeze soothed his skin, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh small of the water and the scents of the city. He wanted the peace to sink into every pore--to soothe away the claws of memory.

The air trembled around him; power the size of the universe overwhelmed his other senses. It was primeval and deadly, but so familiar to him. And the scent--like the freshest ocean and sandalwood. Cas didn't want to turn and look, knowing that doing so would rip every single scar he had open, leaving him bloody and vulnerable and exposed.

Someone inhaled sharply behind Cas--a short, sharp gasp of surprise.

Against his better judgement, against every instinct and piece of advice Dean and Sam had drilled into him, Cas looked back. 

Acheron stared with his lips slightly parted. The red of his hair recessed, devoured by sunny, golden blonde. He looked more the way he had when Cas had first seen him ten thousand years ago, albeit in leather pants and a dark denim jacket.

Castiel felt the air leave his lungs. Still, he made himself watch as impassively as he could as Acheron slowly removed his shades. Wide eyes, silver and opalescent like full moon, stared at Cas with disbelief. Had Cas been human he would have been on his knees already, doing everything in his power to rip Acheron's clothes from his body.

But Cas wasn't human, and he had never thought that he would know a time when he was grateful for that.

Hesitantly, but still with a last fragment of hope, Acheron said, "It is you...isn't it, Castiel?"

Cas felt his restraint shatter like glass. He sighed softly, wanting nothing more than to fall into the dependable strength of Acheron's arms. Instead, he closed his eyes and let his wings unfurl, stretching to their fullest extent, broad and peppered with stars and technicolor splashes of the night sky. Not even Sam and Dean had ever seen Castiel's wings this majestic, but then again, he'd never had a reason to show either of them.

Cas encircled his wings around Acheron. The warmth of Ash's skin against his wings as he wrapped the bigger man in an angelic embrace nearly devastated him. But if Cas was feeling the merciless onslaught of emotions, it was nothing to how Acheron felt at the gentle touch.

He smiled softly, letting Cas wrap him round completely. Cas could feel the god's emotions traveling through his wings, filling him like hot cider on a cold night; completing him while simultaneously devastating him. There was so much pain, so much suffering, and Cas wanted to take it all away.

But then again, when had he not wanted to be the one to take Acheron's pain away?

"Are you…I mean, are you doing anything right now?” It was so ridiculous that someone who held the power of the universe was acting like an awkward teenager.

Cas shook his head, still holding the Atlantean in his wings. Sam and Dean could wait.

"No. I'll never be too busy for you."

"Come home with me?"

"Of course."

And then, without so much as a sign of it's about to occur, both men vanished into thin air. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It started, as most things in Castiel's eternity started, with a scream torn from an innocent soul. Piercing the heavens in its cry for justice, the scream shot through the young angel like something hot as flame and frigid as the heart of a glacier. It begged for succour, this soul—for a comfort that it had scarcely ever known.

Something in the angel stirred. He and has fellows weren’t entirely initiated in the ways of the humans who toiled on the world that the Father had created. Castiel had never given them much of a thought, these humans, but again, he had blinked into being a mere century beforehand. For all intents and purposes, he was a baby to his brothers and sisters. 

And like most curious children, he had an innate need to learn and understand. So he listened to the scream, at times feeling something like a prickling spark within him; and at others, a constricting tightness. The screaming soul became his every focus, so that he slackened in his ceaseless worship of the Almighty. None noticed it, and those who did brushed it off: Castiel was practically an infant; he didn't know any better and he would soon learn the error of his ways. 

One among the heavenly host, however, was not entirely oblivious. He watched his little brother like a hawk, noting how his whole celestial form shimmered and dimmed whenever the screaming soul weighed on him. After a time, Lucifer decided to offer his advice as an older brother and more experienced angel. 

He came to Castiel during a particularly intense moment of deliberation. The soul had been screaming ceaselessly for time immeasurable, and it was all Castiel could do to not fling himself from Heaven to bring some kind of comfort to it. 

"You look vexed, my dear little brother."

Lucifer came quietly upon Castiel; the younger angel prostrated himself at once. Lucifer truly was the most beautiful of all the angels of them Lord; he burned bright as a morning star and moved with the grace of a spring wind. But there was something terrible to his beauty, something that demanded respect. 

Despite his delight, Lucifer gently lifted Castiel to a standing position. "Don't," he said softly. "You're my brother, Castiel. I'm too fond of you to see you kneel. But come—what's bothering you? You've been distracted for so long now—over a decade in the time of Men, at least."  

And so Castiel told him of the soul that had been screaming at him. Only in his relation of events, the young angel said that the soul was screaming for him.

"Does it scream now?" Lucifer asked.

"Yes. I don't know if it's going to stop."

"But you want it to stop?"

"Yes. It needs to be helped."

Lucifer smiled encouragingly and gestured to the layer of firmament. "Why not go and see for yourself, Castiel?"

Castiel was aghast. "But I can't leave. The Father hasn't commanded it."

"You have much to learn," Lucifer said, "if you think that he would be angry with you for answering the call of a soul in torment."

That certainly made sense to Castiel. He pondered for a moment. "But if we answer the call of every human in distress, we wouldn't have time for the Father."

Instead of being annoyed at his younger brother's contrariness, Lucifer seemed pleased at the chance to converse on such a subject. "Ah, but this soul is speaking to you specifically, isn't it? It's a song in and of itself. It needs you and you alone."

"Then why not pray to me?"

"Because it doesn't know you. Or me, or Michael, or Gabriel, or the Father. Yes, Castiel," for the younger angel had seemed horrified at something so blasphemous, "there are Men who don't know of the Father. They have their own gods and beings to worship and fear. This soul has found its way to you. It needs you. Are you so cold as to abandon it?"

Castiel's attention strayed once more to the membrane between Heaven and the sky of Earth. "If I go there, I won't know what to do...how to survive or act."

"Then why not see? Just for now? Take a look for yourself and then come back. I'll leave the gate open for you."

Castiel glowed, and the affection he gave to his older brother was enough to warm Lucifer for a moment. "You would do that for me?"

"Of course. You're my brother, Castiel. There isn't a thing I wouldn't do for you if you asked it if me. Within reason, at least. You're quite remarkable—more than many of the others."

Castiel soared with happiness at the compliment of God’s favorite. Then his elation faltered. "Won't the Father notice my absence?"

"Time passes differently on Earth, Castiel. You merely want to go and see for yourself just who this soul is. It will be a mere passing thought here." Lucifer stretched one of his great wings forth; the firmament shimmered, showing the vast vault of a dark, starry sky. The thinning of the gate brought the scream of the soul to Castiel with the force of a trumpet blast. It was so powerful that even Lucifer heard it. 

"Goodness. That is tortured," the archangel remarked. Then, to his brother, he said, "Go. This is your chance, Castiel. The longer you wait the more time passes there, and the more torture your screaming soul goes through. Go, Castiel...stretch your wings for once. Think of the relief you could offer him...of the good you could do..."

The words were like the sweetest hymn of praise.

Yes.

He could do good. He was an angel, after all. Was he not supposed to help a soul crying out in pain just because his Father hungered for obedience? 

_What does he have to fear from me giving aid to this one person? To one of his creations?_

Castiel looked at Lucifer's awesome, beautiful form. The archangel glowed with acceptance. If one of the Father's most trusted and prized thought it was a good idea, why not?

Castiel stepped to the edge of the gate. The soul begged for help, for one scrap of comfort. This time, Castiel caught snatches of words; they cut him like a million flaming daggers: _please...no more...something...anything...help me...make it stop…_

With that, Castiel took a step and plummeted from Heaven in a ball of white fire. Air cut around his magnificent, eldritch form, chipping him to the basic core of his being. He was white hot and falling faster and faster. The screaming soul grew louder, the agonized wail resonating all around and within the angel. Soon he could see land and grand buildings. Fires burned bright from the city near a mighty ocean. The ball of fire that consumed the angel shot towards the vast expanse of water; steam rose from the placid surface, and, all at once, the angel disappeared into the depths of the sea. 

He had never experienced the sensation of water before. Part of him wanted nothing than to swim to the bottom; entranced by the delights of the infinite fathoms, the angel floated among the marine life—among the dolphins and squids and schools of fish.

His Father's creations.

Beautiful and flawless and mysterious.

But even underneath the pressure of the ocean, the voice of the tortured soul continues to call. It was close at hand, far closer than Castiel had heard it before. 

Like an arrow, he shot from the heart of the sea and broke through the surface. Nowhere near as majestic as he was ordinarily, his indistinct, humanoid form still cut an impressive sight: golden and tall, like the light of a new dawn. His wings unfurled, and the power he exerted sent a wave as tall as a tree rolling towards the shore. Castiel chased that wave, and to the sailors out at sea, he looked like a host of fireflies flying across the surface of the inky ocean.

Sobs from his calling soul rang through him, driving him onwards and onwards. He saw a city, built in splendor on an immense island. Through darkened streets and grand gardens he soared, the need to answer that beckoning cry growing like a fire. It was coming from the palace on the hill. Castiel knew that most Men who lived in wealth and royalty had little to weep about, and he couldn't understand why the soul of one who dwelled within such a place would be in so much agony. 

Walls meant nothing to him. The angel soared through the thick limestone and sandstone and marble, caring not a mite for the opulence of the place. 

Every particle of him vibrated in expectation. He was here, among Men, doing what angels were supposed to do. Bless Lucifer for having been so kind and directing him to touch down upon Earth.

Castiel shot through one last solid walk, and stopped short. 

He could still hear the desperate pleas of the soul—the soul that had chosen him. But the chamber, spacious like the rest of the palace, but empty save for a bed, was completely dark. 

Slowly, Castiel lowered himself until he hovered inches above the stone ground. The screams and pleas were deafening here, and he felt that same stirring within him—the same sensation of some immense snake constricting his very being. Had the humans in the palace been able to hear souls as angels did, it would have sounded as if a madman had been locked within the chamber. 

Castiel flew softly towards the bed. A figure slept beneath plain sheets. Even in the embrace of slumber his soul screamed on and on.

Castiel floated beside the bed, unable to believe the beauty of the young man resting with his head on the pillow. Hair as gold as the midday sun framed a face so handsome that it seemed almost unreal. But even in its shattering beauty there was something so inherently tragic about his face—a sort of heinous desecration of youth and hope. 

Again something foreign moved within Castiel. He wanted to soothe the pain in the young man's soul, to quiet the screams and chase away whatever had caused him so much unbearable misery. The feeling surprised him. Since he'd first come into being, he'd really only ever known the feeling of worship and fealty to his Father. What he felt now was similar, certainly, but still somehow worlds apart. 

He had to help this poor soul because nobody else would. Nobody else ever had. 

Castiel let his holy grace flow from him. It filled the room, chasing away the shadows. The soul's screaming pleas began to subside into a gentle lull until, at last, they were soothed into silence. Peace lined the beautiful young man's face for the briefest of moments. Castiel wanted to sing at the victory of having done something good for him. 

Then the young man's body jerked. His breathing hitched and he sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide. 

Castiel dropped to the floor, completely taken aback by what he saw. 

The young man's eyes were white as snow and swirling like silvery mist. And they were staring directly at the angel before him.

In a voice tinged with fear and confusion, the man asked, "Who are you?"

Castiel didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. He was frightened of this young man, suddenly. He had rarely felt fear before, but the icy grip of it wrapped him round now.

The man with the silver-white eyes didn't look angry. He looked afraid. The sheet pooled at his waist, exposing his upper body, which Castiel saw was riddled with scars. 

He had to leave—had to get back to the gate before anyone knew he had ever gone. And yet something about the man with the haunted eyes and the screaming soul made him want to stay.

"Don't be afraid," Castiel said. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The man made a derisive sound. Did he doubt Castiel's words? 

"You will. Everyone does eventually."

He sounded so utterly defeated—so completely set on the notion.

"What are you?" The man asked. He tensed. "Are you Zeus?"

"Who?"

"Like in the story of Danae. Zeus came to her in a golden rain. That was how Perseus was born. According to legends anyway."

They were his beliefs. From his pantheon, his gods. 

"I'm not Zeus. My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord."

The man frowned. "An angel? What's an angel?"

Castiel honestly didn't know how to answer. What was he really? 

"I serve the Almighty Father."

"And who is he?"

"The Creator of all that is."

"So, Zeus then?"

"No."

The man shook his head. "How can I know who you are if you don't know? What are you even doing here?" 

"You called to me." 

"I did?"

"Yes. I could hear your soul. It was screaming, crying out to me for so long. There was so much pain—I can still hear it, hear it screaming in agony. But what I don't know is why."

Castiel moved in a shimmering curtain of gold to the side of the man's bed. The man flinched away, averting his gaze.

"No," Castiel said earnestly, "please don't be scared. I told you I wasn't going to hurt you."

"I don't even know who you are, Castiel," the man said. "I don't know what you mean, either. My soul called to you?"

"Yes. I don't know why it did that either. But you obviously needed me."

The young man rubbed at his eyes, looking pained by something. Again, that mysterious sensation in Castiel quickened. Almost without thinking, he extended his grace, and the young man's frame relaxed.

"What is your name?" Castiel asked.

Silence followed. Castiel truly believed the young man would ignore him entirely. Again that pained look came into his eyes; again, Castiel felt that it was now his duty to ease whatever ailed his charge.

He didn't know what to do. All he knew was that he wanted to do something.

"Acheron." 

He spoke his own name as if it were something insubstantial, pathetic…worthless.

Acheron sighed wearily, rubbing his eyes once more. Then he frowned and glanced sideways at Castiel, as if confused by something he couldn't quite understand. 

"If you really aren't from Zeus—if my soul really did call out to you—then what exactly are you going to do?" 

"I don't know that either."

Acheron scoffed. "You don't know why my soul called to you. You don't know how to help me. You don't even know how to describe yourself." He looked at Castiel fully, and smiled almost in spite of himself. "Tell me something—do you want to fuck me?"

"What does that mean?"

At that, Acheron actually laughed. It was a hollow sound, too desolate for something meant to convey joy and amusement.

"Do you want to use my body?"

"I don't understand."

Acheron's eyes widened. "You really aren't of this world are you? Everybody and everything that sees my eyes—sees me in general—all they want is to use me for their pleasure."

Castiel stilled. "Their...pleasure?"

"Yes. I'm nothing to most people but a piece of flesh to be used—a thing, not a person. No matter who sees me, the always take. _Always_." 

He seemed so resolved to his fate—so willing to accept the torture inflicted upon him. Castiel let the tips of his wings brush against Acheron's shoulder, wanting more than anything to offer some comfort.  

Sensation like he'd never known exploded within him. It was fire and ice and the gale force winds of a violent storm; it broke him and then smashed what remained what of him into bloody bits. It seared him and slapped him and battered him around until there was nothing left.  

He gasped, letting his wings fold in on themselves once again. He'd felt Acheron's soul full-force. There was so much pain, so much turbulent emotion. He had the potential to hate, to be evil.

And yet all he seemed to be was resigned.

Acheron's silver eyes were fixed on Castiel's barely-there form. "What was that?"

"Forgive me. I should have asked your permission."

"But what was it? How did you do that? Wait, never mind," Acheron shook his head. "You probably don't' know."

"It was my grace," Castiel said. "I wanted to offer you something to ease your soul. It's a mere fragment of my Father’s love and mercy." 

“Love,” Acheron spat. Then he thought for a moment. "What do you want in return?"

"Nothing." Inwardly, Castiel wanted to know more—to feel the full extent of Acheron's pain. How else could he expect to soothe it—to help him—if he didn't know the circumstances behind it? 

Acheron considered the word as if it held the meaning of the universe. He relaxed, without the aid of Castiel's grace this time. 

Suddenly from the corridor beyond Acheron's chamber came the sound of loud, boisterous laughter. Acheron stilled.

"Styxx," he said quietly. "My brother. Drunk, of course. He and his friends usually spend their nights at some tavern or other."

"Will they do you any harm?" The very idea was enough to coax that flickering flame back to life. 

Acheron laughed hollowly. "No. Styxx is the only reason I'm not rotting in the dungeons any longer." 

"Why?"

The laughter drew closer. 

"You should leave," Acheron said, avoiding Castiel’s question. "They already treat me worse than animal shit. If they catch me talking to an angel they'll think me insane."

"Can I come back?"

"Maybe when you figure out what you are," Acheron said, as if there was nothing more ridiculous. But to Castiel, it was an open invitation. Acheron hadn't driven him away, therefore, he still needed Castiel's help. 

The angel took to the air. 

"I'll return to you, Acheron. I promise."

"I've heard worse promises broken," Acheron muttered. He lay his head back down on the pillow, golden hair cascading around his face. 

Castiel shot through the walls. He passed by Acheron's drunk brother and his friends; he was stunned at how much the two looked alike, although Styxx had dark hair to Acheron's golden blonde. 

Acheron had said that his brother wouldn't hurt him, but Castiel didn't trust the drunken men. Not able to interfere with their free will, he simply flexed his wings as he flew through the halls of the palace. The force sent Styxx and his compatriots tumbling to the stone floor, where they lay in a dazed stupor.

Then he was off, streaking through the ceiling and to the open sky. He ascended with speed too fast to see, white flame erupting around his form as he drew closer and closer to Heaven's gate. 

The firmament swallowed him whole; once more he assumed his true form, with his beautiful wings and his indescribably majestic visage.

Barely any time had passed between his visit to Earth and his return; Lucifer still waited for him by the spot he'd dropped off. 

"That was certainly a fast trip, little brother. Are you content with what you found?"

"No."

Lucifer looked almost overjoyed by the revelation. "Oh? And why not?"

"I want to help him. I want to know him. But I can't do either because I don't know why my purpose is—what an angel is meant to do."  

Lucifer glowed with sudden bliss: his joy was red and black and perfectly terrible and it almost made Castiel uneasy to behold. 

"Questioning our Father? Why, Castiel...I'm so proud of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think so far! These chapters are going to sort of alternate between past and present.


	3. Chapter 3

Katoteros was much as it had been the last time Castiel had found himself among its Doric columns and oceanic sky. The place had been ancient when Heaven had been in its infancy; he himself had been barely a young angel. He’d expected it to undergo some kind of drastic change since the days when Acheron’s own mother had altered the world irrevocably.

Thinking of Apollymi the Destroyer, Cas looked around Acheron's main chamber, as if expecting to see the Atlantean goddess of destruction reading a novel on the divan.

But there was nothing, and moreover, nobody. Of course, Apollymi herself was safely locked in Kalosis until the day her son freed her or was somehow killed.

Cas’s jaw clenched at the memory of the only time that had ever happened. It had been the worst agony to him—the kind he hadn’t even felt when Sam and Dean had been killed on Zachariah’s orders. What had followed had been destruction of the worst kind—a complete and utter annihilation of the world that had once been before recorded history—before even Adam and Eve.

And he, Castiel, had played no small part in that merciless rampage of revenge. It had been perfect chaos, and sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wanted it back. He’d nearly gotten it during the fight with the Leviathans.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Ash shrugged out of his dark jacket, revealing the _Nazareth_ tank top he had on underneath.

The banality of his statement made the angel smile to himself. Acheron didn't seem to know what to do with himself; he hung his jacket in the back of a piece of statuary; then, seeming to think that obscuring a graceful nymph with his clothes was somehow obscene, he threw the offending article onto the end of an arm chair. Not content to let it rest there, he picked it up and finally hung it on a coat rack in the shape of a laurel tree.

"Are you nervous, Acheron?"

"Aren't you?"

Castiel inclined his head. "Yes." In sober honesty, Castiel was actually quite terrified.

Ash sighed, leaning against the support of one of the many pillars lining a home that had been furnished in minimalist bachelor. The set-up was so incongruous—which suited Acheron, with his combination of unflinching kind-hearted loyalty and immense personal pain and trauma, perfectly.

"Will you stay for a while, or are you planning on leaving as soon as I make with the unpleasant memories?"

Cas frowned. "What?"

"I just thought by the trench coat that you were going to turn tail on me."

"Oh." Cas had worn the jacket so long that it really had become a second skin to him. Certainly Sam and Dean had rarely ever seen him out of it more than once or twice, even by accident.

Shrugging off the trench coat felt a very personal thing to do, almost amatory. But he knew pieces of Acheron far more intimate than even nudity went. Cas let the jacket fall to the floor, leaving him in his white button up and messy blue tie.

"You look almost the same as you did back then," Ash remarked; his silvery eyes roved over Castiel from head to toe. "When you had your old vessel from Didymos."

"That was intentional." Castiel had never admitted it to anyone because there were few people who would have understood, and less who would have cared. "When I saw Jimmy Novak—the man whose body I took as my vessel...he looked so much like Dimitri of Didymos that it reminded me of you."

A small, genuine smile graced Acheron's lips. But still, there’s was a reunion that had been centuries in the making, and the way Castiel had left things before, it was a miracle Acheron had even deigned to take him to his ancestral home.

“Your first vessel since then?”

“Not entirely. Just in the last fifty or so years.”

“You’ve been busy?”

"Hunting. With two brothers. They're not Dark Hunters, but they may well be from all the evil they've battled." Cas paused then, deciding that honesty was the best policy under the circumstances, added, "They, uh, triggered an Apocalypse a few months ago."

"That certainly explains a lot," Acheron muttered. "Heaven’s probably doing its nut over that."

"It would put Olympus to shame now. What about you? I haven't seen you since before the Crucifixion." Castiel had only just glimpsed Acheron during one of the many sermons given by Joshua. Ash had, characteristically, been standing as far away from the Son of God as he could out of his own belief in his lack of self-worth. Cas had wanted to go to him then, but he’d been too ashamed of himself to have mustered up the courage to even look his way once more.

Ash replied, "Battling Daimons and Apollites. Leading my warriors. Nothing's really changed all that much for me."

"I was afraid of that."

Ash shrugged. "There isn't much else to do with an eternity ahead of you and a past you'd rather not think about..." He lapsed into silence, his jaw tightening.

Castiel had learned in his lifetime that silence was a fickle, insistent thing that would not stand for being ignored. It crept upon the halls of Katoteros now like a rising mist. He and Acheron had run out of meaningless chatter to fill the void with. Now they could only stand awkwardly before each other with their tongues tied.

Cas wondered just how desolate Acheron's last several centuries had been. Certainly he still carried that mantle of crippling tragedy. It wrought havoc on Castiel's own soul. He couldn't' stand it—he wanted to soothe the savage beast that was Acheron's own self-destructive ouroboros. But how could he when he himself had been the one to walk away? 

Did he even deserve to be here?

He'd caused Acheron pain, perhaps not physically, but he'd still hurt him deeply. It may have been with good intentions, but when had Castiel's best intentions not laid the foundation for a freeway to Hell? He'd hurt Dean and Sam before, but hurting Acheron...it was worse than having been blown to millions of bloody bits.

Cas choked on a breath, feeling his throat tighten and his eyes begin to burn. He stared at the submarine sky of Katoteros, wanting to look anywhere but at the beautiful, broken man across from him.

"I'm sorry," Cas said, the words ripped from somewhere within him so buried and blanketed that it almost tore him asunder to excavate the layers around it. He forced his voice to remain even—association with Dean had taught him that men didn't show their emotions openly. But he wasn't Dean, and whenever it came to Acheron, Cas was like a turtle in its back—the most vital and vulnerable parts of him exposed to any circling raptor.

Ash didn't respond right away. Cas supposed he'd never be forgiven; Acheron had only brought him here as a result of the high of their reunion. He'd tell him to go back to where he’d come from, and Cas would have nothing left but justifiable scars from his own stupidity.

"Why did you leave?"

Because Acheron had been a slave to one of the most reprehensible beings Castiel had ever known. Because Castiel had nearly aided Apollymi in razing the world to dust for the one person they’d both cherished above all others. Because Castiel had forsaken everything he’d once been and had gotten tossed aside as a result. 

At least, that was what Castiel had told himself over the centuries. The excuses—the lies—had carried him through a borderline exile in Heaven, until he'd once more been called by a screaming soul.

That screaming soul was waiting back on Earth. Acheron was more than likely going to turn Castiel away, and he would return to his futile war against evil.

He knew he wouldn't get another chance like this again. He had to speak the truth before the opportunity disappeared—before Acheron was snatched away from him by capricious Fate once again. 

He looked Ash fully in his moonlit eyes.

"I was afraid," he began, speaking slowly as he searched through centuries of buried pain and self-hatred for the words to try and make this right. "I was afraid of what she could have done to me."

There was no need to specify who the "her" was. In any instance, Castiel didn't think the bitch's name worth passing from his lips.

Acheron arched his brows.

"You were scared because she could have what? Destroyed you? Last I checked, she and most immortals who aren't of your Father have more cause to piss themselves with fear than you do of them.”

“And last time I checked, you were hellbent on keeping that evil bitch alive for the greater good.”

Ash scowled. "Gods, as if she hadn't taken enough from me, she had to go taking you too."

Cas feared that his last chance was fast slipping from his grasp. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like? One second you were there. Even after everything changed so much, you still stood by me—still helped me sleep when I couldn't—which, by the way, I haven’t been able to do since Christ was a cowboy. Despite everything, you stayed and for some reason I thought you would always be there. And just like that you'd turned and walked away. Why? You can't tell me it was because you were scared of her sticking the screws to you.”

"I didn't care about what she did to me. She could have tortured me—chained me up like Prometheus and I would have endured it but for one thing."

"What? Your sense of humor?"

"No, Acheron. I had to leave because I knew that if she did anything to take me from you, it would have killed you. I couldn't let myself be your Achilles heel. Not to her. She'd already grabbed a hold one what little you had and ripped it to shreds. The whole world had already taken so much from you by that point. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself knowing that I was the reason you were in pain."

It was a testament to how fundamentally different Acheron was from Dean that he didn't balk at Castiel's unflinching honesty. Dean would have been uncomfortable, even made some attempt to shut Cas up. And if he'd heard Cas's voice as it was now—uncharacteristically shaken and emotional—Dean would probably have hit the roof.

But not Acheron.

Never Acheron.

He stared at Castiel long and hard. His irises grew bright so that his eyes seemed even more luminous than usual. Then he pushed himself off the column and strode towards Castiel.

Cas tensed, not knowing what to expect, wondering if this really had been a colossal mistake. He deserved Acheron's hatred after how he had abandoned him. But the finality of understanding that filled him with a pain so profound that it almost choked the breath from his lungs.

But Ash didn't hit him.

The second he was within arms reach of Castiel, Acheron sank to his knees. He was so tall compared to Cas's average height the top of his golden blonde head only came to somewhere around Castiel's rib cage. Strong arms wrapped around Cas's waist. Ash buried his face into Castiel's body, pulling him close in a supplicant embrace that both broke Cas's heart as well as mended it. 

His first instinct was to wrap his own arms around Acheron. But Ash didn't like to be touched, and even though Cas had been the only thing he could stand to make contact with once upon a time, the angel wasn't certain he had those privileges any longer.

He needn't have worried.

Acheron flexed his powers. Cas felt his arms pulled as if by invisible strings. He stared in wonder as his hands came to rest on Acheron’s shoulders.

"Don't ever think," Ash said as Castiel curled his fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt, "that I don't want you to touch me. Only you, Castiel. Only ever you."

Cas looked into the beautiful blue of the ocean sky overhead. His arms holding Acheron’s head to his chest, he felt something like a grateful prayer burning within him.

His Father probably wouldn't be listening, even if he could hear from the depths of Katoteros. But at that moment, Castiel didn't give much of a damn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit saccharine, I know. Most of what happens in the chapters taking place in the present will be like this. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

The man was quite wretched indeed. Castiel watched, invisible, Lucifer beside him, as the poor wretch continued to mutter to himself in a filthy alley, scrounging for scraps of food and being kicked at by passers-by. 

It had been a mere day on Earth since Castiel had first met Acheron; in Heaven, time had meaningless gone by in a matter of moments. In that time, Lucifer had made the only suggestion that seemed to make any sense to Castiel. 

"You have to see how Man lives, little brother. If you truly wish to understand yourself and how different you are—how different we are—from them, then you need to witness first-hand their ways."

"You mean to say I must remain on Earth?"

"Yes."

"But what about Acheron? What about the Father?"

"Oh, we won't be long. We can pass among them swifter than sound. I imagine you'll return to your human friend in a matter of hours in his time."

Castiel thought he'd misheard. "We?"

Lucifer had been nearly mollified. "Do you really think I'm about to let you wander off down there alone and uninitiated? Besides, someone has to show you the ways of the world."

"You speak as if you've...been there before..." Castiel's voice trailed off. Once more he noticed the munificent glow of red and black that was Lucifer's way of expressing his joy. 

"I," he said, "and many others. You aren't the first to have done something without the Father's knowledge, Castiel. But come: time will waste away on Earth and before you know it, Acheron will have withered into an old man."

They plummeted earthwards, Lucifer brushing off Castiel's fear of the gate being closed with a simple, "I have the power to open it on the way back." The globe of fire that had engulfed Lucifer's form on the way through the sky had made him appear a positive star falling from the heavens; and when he landed in the sea beside Castiel, he sent a massive storm of waves around him.

Castiel had expected them to return to the island nation where Acheron lived. But Lucifer had determined to show him the world, and what a wide, expansive world it was. 

They flew faster than a gale force wind across deserts and plains and mountains. Every so often, Lucifer stopped them and landed in a village or city. And the further on they ventured through the world of Men, the more Castiel's discouragement grew until, here, seeing the destitute man scratching into the walls of a filthy alley, the young angel found himself hating Acheron's kind.

He'd seen wives beaten, children starved and men murdered in cold blood. He'd seen greed and duplicity and waste; he'd born witness to lust and insanity and ignorance and war. He wondered how any of this had affected Acheron. All throughout he and Lucifer’s visitations, Castiel had continued to hear Acheron’s soul nattering at him, and it was all he could do to not have abandoned Lucifer and returned to the island nation.

Something of his melancholy showed on his indistinct form. Lucifer reached out with his own almighty grace, rousing Castiel's attention. 

"What's the matter?"

"I don't understand any of this," Castiel said, trying his utmost not to look at the lunatic man now snatching wildly at rats. "Why are they so evil? Is that what makes them different from us?"

Lucifer sighed. "I suppose it isn't fair to them to have only shown you so much of their darkness. It isn't that they're inherently evil, Castiel. Only that they get no reprimand."

Castiel thought for a moment. The crazed man began to rock back and forth on his heels, crying pitifully. "They can choose," Castiel said at last. 

"Free will," Lucifer added, and the venom in his voice made Castiel shiver. "They can give into temptation and carnality and base desires—they can defy goodness and grace and fealty, and they will remain. Castigated and perhaps punished by mortal law, which is faulty itself. But never judged. Never weighed in the balance and found wanting. And all because of their free will."

"But surely He sees them?" Castiel looked to the clouded night sky. "And what of their gods? The gods of Acheron, and the gods of all those other Men?"

Lucifer laughed dryly. "Our Father pays them sparing heed. Only when they bend their knees and tear their clothes does He ever listen. And as for their gods...well, our Father may only have ears for those who praise him, but the other gods are spiteful and cruel. Most of them at least."

Something wasn't sitting quite right in Castiel's heart. Even though Lucifer's words were spoken from a place of frightening honesty, it seemed as if he were purposefully overlooking something vitally important. 

"Acheron isn't like that," Castiel said, somewhat more defensively than he'd intended. "There was anger and hatred within him, but no intent to act on it."

"He is a product of all Man's evils," Lucifer said.

"Is there nothing I can do to help him?"

Castiel felt as if pieces of him were being slowly flensed away with lethal knives. What a cruel world his Father's creation had become. Yet the way Lucifer spoke, it was as if God had turned a blind eye to mankind, his most beloved of all creations. If so, then what hope was there for Acheron? 

Castiel thought of the beautiful young man—of his luminous white eyes and his sunshine hair. He thought, too, of the torment that seemed to have been etched into Acheron's soul. It wasn't fair; there had to be something more to mankind than what Lucifer had shown him.

Otherwise, why would the archangel have taken him to Earth? A horrible, snaking suspicion formed in Castiel's mind. He looked away from the gibbering man in the alley.

"Did you want me to turn my back on them?"

Lucifer sighed, but not out of annoyance. Casting a gaze at his brother he said, "No. Of course not. You must forgive me my bias, Castiel. It's only that I've wanted..." Lucifer's voice trailed away once more. Castiel waited, wondering just what it was that God's highest favored could desire in the realm of Men when he already had so much. 

"Come." Lucifer took to the air. His wings created an immense gust of wind that, if anything, sent the unfortunate man into even further hysterics. Castiel followed the archangel, and a moment later they were soaring fast as a thought across endless expanses of water and mountains. Lucifer slowed at a wide-open plain where the people slept in what appeared to be conical huts made of animal skins.

An immense fire burned in the center of the village. Men and women and children danced and sang and ate and laughed. Castiel could feel their joy, and after much of the misery Lucifer had shown him, it was like the warmth of summer. 

The people shared food and stories and drink. Castiel wanted nothing more than to be among them—Inasmuch as he wanted to know the cause of Acheron's pain, he wanted to know what made these folk so joyful. 

Before he had time to even move an inch, they again were off. This time Lucifer took him to a grand city in the desert. A processional of royalty moved down the streets; men with spears kept the common rabble at bay. From somewhere in the waiting crowd, a baby began to scream; a voice from within a luxurious palanquin called for a halt, and a moment later, a splendidly dressed, silver haired woman alighted. Ignoring her guards, she approached the crowd. Another woman, one wearing rags and with frail bones and sallow, dark skin, held the screaming baby almost beseechingly. Castiel knew at once that the destitute woman was dying. From what Lucifer had shown him of the wealthy, he expected the queen to spit at the woman and turn her baby aside. But something unspoken seemed to pass between the two. For though there was no hope for the dying woman, her child, at least, stood a chance. The middle-aged queen took the babe, murmuring a promise to the dying mother, who seemed to come momentarily to a glowing health in her relief.

Again Lucifer took them away, this time to emerald green hills and fields where a red haired youth and a fair-haired maiden danced among a massive circle of stone monoliths. She faltered and fell into the strength of the young man’s arms. They were still for a moment. Then their lips touched; the girl clung to the man as if he were the only sheltering thing in all the universe. Castiel watched with interest, wondering why they held each other so and why the seemed to be trying to devour the other with their lips.

Lucifer moved them again, this time to a mountain road where a strong looking soldier was aiding a young farmer in pulling a horse from a muddy quagmire. The men's efforts proved victorious, and they took each other by the arm, both exuding triumph and camaraderie. 

Lucifer showed Castiel the birth of children and the happiness and unconditional love of parents; he showed him men moved to song by the beauty of the sunrise, and women triumphing over adversity. 

When at last they came to rest, Castiel recognized the opulent island city where Acheron lived. He and Lucifer stood atop the palace roof, staring out over the sea. Soft pink sunlight crept over the horizon, tinging the briny surface of the water with gold and red.

Lucifer seemed almost exhausted by the effort of their worldwide travel.

"Are you satisfied?" 

Castiel was, yes, in that his older brother had shown him the complexity of Man. They were a curiosity faceted race—almost like the surface of a precious stone. But still, he felt deeply troubled by what it was that had brought him from Heaven in the first place. 

"Why can't Acheron have any of that? Of that mercy and happiness and love?"

"Because, as I said, he is a victim of the other half of Man—the darkness and the treachery. He's been denied warmth and comfort and pleasure not in spite of his kind but because of them." 

Lucifer's words stirred the memory of Castiel's conversation with Acheron. 

"He's known pleasure," Castiel said. "He told me so. He said that others have used him for their pleasure. That they fuck him."

Lucifer's sudden, boisterous laughter sent a flock of pigeons flying into the air in fright. "Castiel, you're very lucky we're no longer in Heaven. That kind of vulgarity would get you cast out for certain."

"Vulgarity? I don't understand what that word even means. How could I possibly be punished for being ignorant?"

"You'd be surprised." Lucifer stretched his wings; a large window opened in the air in front of them. Once more, Castiel found himself looking at the fair haired maiden and her lover. Only this time they were somewhere dark, lit only by the light of a fire. Both were naked, clinging to each other in frenzied desperation, the youth atop the maiden. They gasped, their mouths covering one another's again. Castiel felt as if he were watching something he shouldn't be, and yet still, he couldn't bring himself to look away. 

He made towards the portal, but it disappeared the second he moved.

"That," Lucifer said plainly, "is one of the many forms of pleasure. The fleshly pleasure; the ultimate expression of love; the carnal embrace. That, little brother, is what Acheron meant by being fucked."

"But it looked so...enjoyable."

Again, Lucifer laughed. Only this time it was without any mirth. 

"It can be. But like every enjoyable thing known to them, Man can distort pleasure into something heinous and base and degrading. I suspect that is what Acheron was referring to—the forcing of sex upon an unwilling participant. The twisting of lovemaking into depravity and subjugation." 

Castiel felt numb. 

"And...all else that you showed me?"

"You would only know for yourself if Acheron divulged that information. You could take it by force, but I dare say he wouldn't like that at all." 

Castiel stared at the slowly rising sun. It was strange that the day dawned so placidly, when he himself felt possessed of a positive hurricane. Lucifer had shown him so much in such a short space of time, and though he now understood far better than he had before, he still felt crushingly hopeless. 

If Acheron had suffered even a shred of what Lucifer had shown him of the cruelty of mankind—If he'd long been denied the compassion of its capacity for goodness—then it was a small wonder he yet lived. 

"What can I do?" Castiel's voice sounded so small, even to himself, and he hated it—hated his own powerlessness in spite of being an angel of the Lord—hated his Father for not even sparing a thought for Acheron because he was of a different faith. 

"You really want to help this man, don't you?" Lucifer sounded almost surprised. 

"Yes."

"Why?" 

"Because nobody ever has!" Sudden rage shot from Castiel like a breath of fire; Lucifer stared in astonishment. "And if not me, then who?" 

"He's going to die, regardless," Lucifer remarked.

"And what? That diminishes his worth? Should he be denied one scrap of salvation in his short life then? You can ignore him; the Father can ignore him, but not me. He needs me; he called to me. I will rend Heaven in two before I turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to him." 

He spoke with such ferocity that it stunned himself as much as brother. 

Lucifer did not say anything for a long while. Gulls cried from the seashore. Fragrant spices wafted through the air as the palaces and homes of the island kingdom woke for the day. Castiel heard voices from the street below—the voices of humans with lives and kisses and loves and evils none the worse for that, rising from the streets. 

The sun crested over the horizon. 

"I never should have let you leave," Lucifer said, again, speaking more to himself, almost wistfully this time. "You have a hunger for Man now."

"I hunger for knowledge," Castiel replied. "I hunger for the understanding of good and evil; of love and healing. If you didn't want me to eat of the fruit, you shouldn't have planted the tree." 

"Poetic," Lucifer remarked. "You'd make Uriel proud with such pretty words." Lucifer sighed. "Go to your human, then. Tell him that you understand what you are and see what he does with that. I will be waiting by the gate. But don't be longer than one Earth day. Even I can’t keep attention off your absence that long.”

"Thank you," Castiel said, not altogether unkindly. 

"Why thank me? I did nothing but lead you into temptation." And with that, Lucifer took to the sky. He was a ball of fire by the time he reached the blanket of clouds covering the sky.  

Castiel let his form sink through the roof of the palace. Without Lucifer to converse with, he could hear Acheron's soul much more distinctly—feel its pain and suffering. Had it been caused by the kinds of evils Lucifer had showed him? Or had the archangel let his own apparent dislike of the one thing the Father loved more than the Morning Star cloud his judgement? 

_Acheron isn't like them_ , Castiel thought as he glided through the palace. _He's a victim, just like Lucifer said. And the only one in any position to help him is me._

He found the room where Acheron slept, but it was empty. The sheets had been tossed back in a hurry, as if the man who occupied the bed had made a dash from the room...or been dragged from it. 

The very thought of Acheron being mistreated once again was enough to make Castiel burn the air around him with fiery rage. It was probably his lout of a brother, Styxx. He'd probably wanted revenge for having been knocked over the previous night, decided that Acheron would suit his ends, and dragged him from his bed to do who only knew what. 

Riding a current of fury, Castiel soared through the palace. The halls grew wider and more pristine, adding to the image of Acheron as something that had been thrown aside with only a thought of getting rid of him. 

Styxx was asleep on his own, grand bed, an arm thrown over his eyes without a care in the world. Castiel had seen hate thanks to Lucifer's tour of Mankind. Never had he experienced it before. It felt like the magmatic burning of a volcano—hot and powerful and uncontrollable. He wanted to pull every last hair from Styxx's head—make him suffer for being so like his brother but so uncaring and spoiled. 

Castiel hovered over the sleeping prince, wondering what the royal brat had done with his twin brother. Vibrating with a rage that he could not help—that almost felt good to him—Castiel let his wings unfurl. The searing tip of one indistinct feather ghosted against the side of Styxx's face.

Anguish overwhelmed Castiel; screams and pleas filled him; he saw darkness and felt pain and blood and violation and the utmost horror of betrayal. Loneliness engulfed him like a tidal wave, burying the light of a love and compassion so true that it refused to be extinguished no matter the pressure of external elements. And it was a love for Acheron—a fealty and a hope for betterment—for the days of a short lived innocent childhood when he could fall asleep by his twin without fear and pain to look forward to come morning light.

The screams grew louder and louder, even as Castiel felt the connection between himself and Styxx's soul sever. 

Styxx had clambered out of his bed, eyes fixed on Castiel. It was only when he saw the prince had his mouth closed that Castiel knew Styxx wasn't the one screaming—he himself was. 

Castiel silenced himself, and then all but dropped to the floor. Every particle of him felt as if it had been struck by lightning. Acheron's pain, the brief glimpse of it he had felt, was so alike to Styxx's. But how could that have been possible when Styxx had everything that Acheron did not?

Styxx did not appear afraid. In fact, he stared at Castiel almost curiously, hands curled into fists at his sides.

There was a whole universe of pain to the prince now standing before him. Castiel knew that all he had to do to uncover it—to possibly even discern how Acheron's own anguish compared—was to simply ask. There was something about that hopeful light buried beneath the desire to remain in solitude; Acheron wanted help but received none, and Styxx wanted to help but never could for whatever reason. 

Again, the angel locked eyes with one of his Father's beautiful, flawed creations. Styxx’s eyes were so unlike Acheron’s—plain as chestnut but with that same buried turmoil. The sheet had fallen from around Styxx's body when he'd bolted from the bed, leaving him naked and exposed. But he did not appear abashed, and Castiel saw several scars marking his body. He wondered if Acheron would possess those same mementos of brutality.  

He wanted to know more. But Styxx hadn't called for him—Acheron had. It was the plight of Acheron's soul that had moved Castiel to defy everything he'd been created for. Whatever darkness had torn into Styxx's soul wasn't his to chase away—wasn't his to know. A part of him was even terrified to see into it again, afraid that somehow knowing the pain of this prince would turn him against Acheron. 

Still, he could not simply leave, not now that he knew there to be so much misery within Styxx's own soul. Forcing himself to recover from his shock, Castiel let his grace flow so that it touched every corner of the room. Styxx's breath hitched—his eyes fluttered shut as peace overwhelmed him. Castiel tried to emit as much of his intent as he could: he was trying to help Acheron, to comfort him. He wanted to know where he was and what he could do. Nothing more, nothing less.

Styxx opened his eyes. Castiel let his grace dissipate. The young prince met Castiel's angelic gaze understandingly, but there was something else, something almost as resigned as Acheron's. 

"Do you...want me to help you, too?" Castiel asked. For some reason he could not understand, the idea was almost repugnant. 

Styxx shook his head. "No. I don’t wish for anyone’s help. I wish to be left alone. If you could make that happen for me one day, that would be the only kindness I've ever been shown."

Castiel relaxed, hating himself for doing so. Who was he to deny Styxx that which he most wished? Still, there was something about the prince's pain that kept him at bay—as if he himself would be hurt by it. Perhaps a stronger angel could be persuaded? Perhaps even Lucifer, although Castiel seriously doubted that his brother would deign to help, what with his ambivalence towards Men.  

"I'll try," Castiel said at last, and he desperately hoped that one day he could make good on that oath.

"That's better than most things I've heard." Styxx sighed as if he hadn't even a heart left to break. "Acheron is probably at the amphitheater. It's the only place he can go where nobody pays too much attention to him. They'll be too focused on the play."

"Thank you...Styxx."

Styxx gave Castiel a wan smile and then moved slowly to his bed. Just before Castiel disappeared through the wall, he paused, looking back at Acheron's twin. 

Castiel had only been on Earth for a combined total of one day, and he'd learned far more of Men and their ways than he'd ever wanted to. But the hardest thing thus far was this—that sometimes there was nothing to be done but pass by a creature in need and know there was nothing to be done to help it. 


	5. Chapter 5

Acheron procured their drinks and led Castiel to the great marble balcony that overlooked the separate sea of sunken Katoteros. Cas accepted the tumbler of Irish whiskey, and looked out over the sapphire blue of the ebbing, endless ocean. 

"Nice to see you've developed a taste for the finer things in life," Ash remarked as Cas took a hit from his whiskey. "I take it that's a result of your not-Dark Hunters-hunter friends?"

Cas wiped his lips on the back of his hand. The mysterious wind of Katoteros—brisk and briny and cool but with the strangest scent of citrus—seeped through his thin, white button up. The feeling was refreshing, and reminded him that he was not only alive and himself and sane after all the mistakes he'd made, but also here, with Acheron. 

"Sam and Dean think it heresy if a man doesn't drink," he said at least. "Dean does, at least." 

"Sounds like he'd fit in with a lot of my crowd." 

Cas gazed into the amber liquid in his glass. After a moment of silent rumination, he said, "I pulled Dean from Hell."

Acheron choked on his bourbon. 

" _What_?" 

"He sold his soul to save his brother. They tried everything to undo the contract, but in the end, it wasn't enough. The injustice of it..."

Castiel closed his eyes, remembering how Dean's soul had screamed from the depths of the Pit; how he'd begun to laugh with mad delight when the demons had broken him, moulding him into something like themselves.

"He was there for hundreds of years in the lifespan of demons, at least. Everyone in Heaven wanted to get him out. But for me...it was like hearing you again, only not as painful."

Even as he spoke the words, Castiel was struck by the honest profundity of them. It wasn't that Dean's pain had been less—the horrors inflicted on Acheron paled in comparison to anything Hell had done to Dean. But Acheron had been in a place and among a people where kindness could have been offered, but never had. In any event, Dean had already been world weary and rough around the edges compared to how relatively innocent Acheron had been. 

"I'm flattered," Acheron said. "Really. Nice to know all I went through was good for something."

"Don't talk about it like that," Cas said quickly. 

"It made me who I am today."

"Did it?" Cas thought back to every time he'd been betrayed by Heaven: when Michael had waged manipulative warfare on Sam and Dean; when the Father had ignored Acheron's suffering until it had become a problem. "Sometimes it doesn't make you anything, Ash. It doesn't build character or make you stronger. Sometimes it just hurts."

Acheron set his glass down and placed his big hand over top of Castiel's. 

Cas made himself look into Acheron's silvery eyes. Ash was smiling ruefully, a hint of white fang visible. 

"I know. We wrote one hell of a book on pain. Most of my men and women have, as a matter of fact. So I guess, in a way, it does make us _what_ we are. Just not _who_ we are."

Cas let Ash's fingers thread through his own. "That was why I knew I had to protect them. Sam and Dean, I mean. They've had so much cruelty thrown their way—so much injustice...I dread the day something pushes them over the edge and _she_ comes calling. She already did once. Although that was because she wanted to bring Prometheus down."

Acheron snorted. "Typical. But you have kept them safe. You're one hell of an angel in that regard."

"I'm not all the time," Castiel sighed. He squeezed Acheron's fingers, taking another pull from his whisky as he did so. "I've done so many stupid, selfish, horrible things."

"Join the club. I turned my own best friend into my immortal enemy over a poorly chosen turn of phrase."

"And I turned mine against me because I wanted to be better than God," Castiel said, the memory making him wince. "Old habits die hard."

"We both seem to be batting a hundred," Acheron said with a small smile. "Could really raise the beam in making Hell on Earth."

"Why not? It wouldn't be the first time."

Acheron laughed; and Cas, in spite of himself, joined in. It was all so ridiculous in its massive scope. The two of them had nearly wrought destruction upon the world more than once. And yet here they were having drinks together and talking about the Apocalypse as if it were a finale episode of _Game of Thrones_. 

Castiel's quiet obliviousness had always proven an issue of amusement for Sam and Dean. They had brushed it aside as his ignorance of the world beyond Heaven. Had they seen him here, laughing and talking with Acheron, they would likely have assumed some kind of celestial brain damage had occurred. Castiel was far more verbose than either of the Winchesters were aware—only his past mistakes and the long separation from the exhilarating, plagued man across from him had rendered him both wary of emotion and disdainful of it. 

Acheron sucked back the remainder of his bourbon. Sighing heavily, he laid his head on Castiel's shoulder. Cas felt his entire body surge with electricity at the contact. He'd gone so long without the feeling of this particular man against him even in the most casual way that he nearly hurt from how right it felt.

"I missed you," Ash whispered. "Have I said that already?"

"I might stand to hear it once or twice more." Cas raked his fingers through Ash's golden hair. "Why did you change the way this looked?"

"Because people love blondes."

Cas frowned. Of course Acheron would want to paint himself as something to keep away from. Even if his height and build didn't intimidate those who found him desirable, then the bright red hair would have cemented their conception of him as some Sid Vicious weirdo. He wanted to keep the very world he protected at arms length, and Castiel couldn't blame him for that. 

Part of him—that part forged in fire alongside Sam and Dean—wanted to at least check back in with the world above. But he wanted this peace with Acheron so much that it made him wish that there were no other world to go back to. 

Acheron encircled Cas with one strong arm. Cas melted into the strength of it. He closed his eyes, basking in the familiarity of the embrace. Without warning, his wings unfurled. Acheron, standing so close beside him, gasped at the soothing warmth, and at the raw emotion that spread from the back of Castiel's shoulders to the tips of his wings. Everything he felt for Acheron—the devotion, the longing, the desire to protect...the love: it all flowed from him in a way it had only done thousands of years before.

Acheron gasped, intoxicated by the heat of Castiel's wings and the power of the emotion rolling from them. Opalescent eyes turned supernova bright with intense need. Ash righted himself, turned Castiel to face him and then dipped his head. When their lips met, it nearly sent Cas over the side of the balcony from the power of it.

The first kiss they'd shared in millennia. Even back then such physical tokens were few and far between; Cas had always been too frightened of making Acheron think himself still a thing to be used. And as for true intimacy, they'd never crossed that line. Now, feeling the warm weight of Ash's body pressing against him—tasting his mouth and breath and gripping at his shirt, Cas wanted nothing more than to take a great bounding leap over that line. 

Ash's hands roved over Castiel's sides. He ground into his body, and Cas moaned into Acheron's mouth at the feeling of unyielding friction of the hardness tenting Acheron’s leather pants. Ash had said it was okay if Castiel touched him, but Cas was still afraid of ruining this somehow. Still, the fear that it would end pressed him oddly onwards. The flats of his hands smoothed slow, sensuous circles into Acheron's chest; he was all solid muscle and perfection outwardly—Adonis hiding the torrent of Orpheus beneath. 

Dean would have had a fit had he seen Cas this way, both because of his being with another man and also because of his being with someone at all. But again, Cas found that he no longer cared for what happened in any of the worlds outside Katoteros.

Acheron seemed possessed of the centuries of pent up need—Castiel could scarcely breathe from the heat and fervor of their kiss. Ash's hands were everywhere, needy and rife with desire. When Ash palmed the front of Castiel's slacks, Cas let out a gasp, breaking away from the scorching kiss. He'd rarely thought about that part of his anatomy—leave it to Acheron to ignite that desire inside of him. Cas rocked forward, driven by a desire he'd long ago made himself abstain from. Acheron growled, gripping Cas's hardness through his pants; Cas nearly arched his back, needing more, feeling that he'd die without that touch. 

In his wanton desperation, he nearly toppled from the marble balcony. 

Ash smirked, catching Cas at the small of his back with one steady, strong hand. "Steady there, angel wings. I can't have you being a real fallen angel on me.”

Cas grinned. "Wouldn't be the first time." He brushed his thumb over Acheron's pectoral muscle, feeling the hardness of his nipple beneath his band t-shirt.

"Not here," Acheron groaned. "Too unstable." Keeping his hand firmly on Castiel's back, Ash pulled the angel away from the balcony. The air shimmered, and the next second they were standing in a spacious bedroom. The lights were bright, illuminating the massive King size bed on its ornate, ebony four-poster frame. 

Ash gently pushed Castiel onto the mattress. He stood back, admiring the needy mess he'd made of his angel. Then he peeled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it into the corner. 

Cas sat up straight, his eyes wide as he saw the intricate black and red dragon tattoo that stretched up Acheron's side and onto his chest. 

"Is that...?"

Acheron smiled, looking down at the tattoo as if it were an old pet. "Simi—it’s time to wake up." 

The tattoo separated from Acheron's tan skin, forming into an amorphous black mist. For a moment it hovered in the air; then it took shape as a most extraordinary young woman. 

Dressed in a black bathrobe with a red sash, she looked like a Gothic Lolita doll. Standing at exactly five feet in height, there was a lethal sort of innocence to her, made all the more evident by her red eyes, immense black wings, perfect dark hair and the small black teddy bear clutched at her side that, on further inspection, had been stitched with white thread to resemble a skeleton.

"You're so mean, akri," Simi said, rubbing tiredly at her eyes with the back of a red-nailed hand. "Simi was having such a nice dream. She was at a pig roast in Hawaii with Rob Rainford. There was hickory smoked bacon and pig's feet, and--”

Her scarlet eyes caught sight of Castiel sitting on the bed. All traces of tired irritability vanished. Her ruby lips parted in a shriek of delight. She bounded across the floor and threw her arms around him, tackling him against the mattress with a high-pitched squeal.

"Monkey Man! You came back! Simi always knew you would! Simi kept telling akri that you would but he's such a grumpy old akri, and he said to Simi, 'Monkey Man made it clear as daylight that he wasn't coming back.' But you are back, and Simi is so, so happy, Monkey Man!"

Only the coldest of souls—and the red headest of evil immortal bitches—could have looked upon the Charonte demon with anything other than affection. She was almost always bursting with exuberance. 

"It's good to see you too, _edera_.” He used the Atlantean endearment for “precious baby.”

Simi, being one of the few primordial beings who could see Castiel's true angelic form in plain sight and without her head melting off, had always called him "Monkey Man." One of the prominent faces of Castiel's angelic form was that of a Rhesus macaque. Cas had been with Acheron when he'd found Simi thousands of years ago, and she'd taken to him as much as she'd taken to her beloved akri.

"Simi was so scared when akri woke her up." With Castiel flattened below her, Simi propped herself on her elbows and looked at him soulfully. "She thought akri was trying to get rid of her because he was with the red headed heifer bitch again. Ooh, just thinking about the heifer makes Simi so angry!" Her eyes flashed black and red and a spiral of smoke escaped her nostrils. "Akri still won't let Simi eat the bitch, but Simi doesn't mind anymore. It gives Simi a long time to think about the perfect barbecue sauce to use for when she does get to roast the bitch!"

Whatever comfort and joy Cas had felt at seeing the perky demon again vanished. He stared over Simi's head at Acheron, who averted his eyes. Oblivious to the tension she'd created, Simi continued babbling on and on; Cas barely heard her, his mind reeling. 

Acheron cleared his throat. "Simi, Castiel and I need a little privacy. I was thinking you might go shopping."

Simi sat up, relieving Cas of the surprisingly heavy weight of her petite body. She pouted at Ash and said, "But Simi is so happy! She wants to talk to Monkey Man!" 

"Maybe you can go shopping for him then? Would you like that, Castiel?" Ash gave Cas a meaningful look. 

Playing along for the sake of getting answers, Castiel said, “Yes. Shopping. That would be terrific.”

"Simi needs new pajamas!" She climbed off Castiel and turned around; as she did so, her black and red bathrobe disappeared, replaced by a dark purple corset and black skirt with striped black and purple stockings. "Do you want Simi to get a matching set, Monkey Man?"

"Certainly."

Simi beamed at him. Then she held her hand out patiently. Ash procured a platinum American Express card from thin air. Simi dropped the card into a coffin shaped purse. Then she blew Castiel a kiss and disappeared in a cloud of flame. 

Acheron, still stripped to his leather pants, stared at his bare feet, avoiding Castiel's gaze. But Cas wasn't about to let the insidious silence have its way once more. 

"The red headed heifer bitch?" He repeated. "Please tell me you're not still..." He couldn't even voice it, mostly because it was too twisted to even fathom, and also because doing so would have made him sick. 

Acheron heaved a sigh. "She leads my men, Cas."

" _You_ lead your men. She makes everything within a hundred mile radius miserable." 

"I told you I was still fighting against the Diamons and Apollites. I'm sorry I didn't make it clearer. But Artemis still needs the Dark Hunters to keep those evil bastards in check."

"I don't know what I was hoping for," Cas said quietly. "Maybe that there's been some kind of loophole in the last eleven thousand years."

"Join the club," Acheron muttered. He turned, ostensibly to find a drink. Whatever it was he intended to rummage around for he never got to. Castiel let out a sharp gasp and jumped off the bed. Ash froze, cursing under his breath as if the act of exposing his back was a base mistake of the utmost stupidity. 

Cas didn't care. He all but stumbled over his own feet as he approached Acheron, fingers outstretched. Iron bands were tightening around his chest, making it hard to breathe or even concentrate on anything other than the multitude of white scars and pink welts that lined nearly every square inch of Acheron's back. 

Cas's fingers trembled as he reached to touch the remnants of torture. At the first contact of fingertips against his skin, Acheron shivered as if he’d been doused with ice water.

Castiel wanted to scream. He wanted to go to Olympus and remind Artemis and all her uncaring, self-specific family just how weak they were compared to the wrath of Heaven.

But all he could muster up was a pitiful, disbelieving, "What have you been letting her do to you?"

Ash looked at Castiel over his shoulder, shame and guilt darkening the light of his eyes. 

"You know her. She won't let me free them unless she gets something in return." He scoffed. "It really doesn't matter after a while. A body can get used to a lot."

He reminded Castiel so much of Dean in that moment—a mask of arrogant disaffection over tumultuous pain—that it set off a furious fuse in his being. 

He backed away from Acheron as if burned. "Why are you being so bland about this? Do you think I want to see you still being used as her plaything?" 

"Last time I checked, if it hadn't been for you I wouldn't have even met Artemis!" Acheron snapped. 

He may well have socked Castiel in the nose. His utterance of the name reverberated around his room, his sanctuary. Cas felt sick, both because the words were true and also at Acheron's having said them at all. 

To his credit, Acheron looked even more pained than Cas at having struck so below the belt. His eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. 

Swallowing against the snake-like obstruction in his throat, Cas stepped around Acheron. He'd left his trench coat near the grand hall that served as Ash's living room.

Doing everything in his power to keep his voice even, he said, "I should go." Sam and Dean were likely running themselves ragged trying to find out where he'd gone. And he couldn't stay here with Acheron so temptingly close and willing, but still under Artemis' thumb. 

Cas moved towards the door.

"Wait."

Then next second Acheron had teleported in front of him, blocking his way. He crushed Castiel to his broad chest. "No. I don't want you to leave. I shouldn't have said that."

Cas sighed, breathing in the sandalwood and ocean scent of the man in front of him. He wanted to protest, although he didn't have a clue as to what good it would do aside from making him a martyr. But he was exhausted from the centuries of burying his need for this. 

Instead, he pressed his face against Acheron's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat. 

"I don't like it anymore than you do," Ash said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. 

Castiel stared up at him, eyes wide. He almost wanted to push away, although the strength of Acheron's embrace was too perfect for him to do anything of the kind.

"Don't you dare—don't you dare think for a second that that’s how I think of it." 

Ash's eyes widened. "I didn't mean—I just don't want you to be angry at me."

Cas swallowed. "I could never be angry at you. It's her—all of them who've ever done you harm. Even me." This, Cas knew, was an angel trap of his own creation. If he was going to extricate the both of them from it intact, he first had to let the ground burn.

Looking Ash dead in the eyes, he said, "I love you, Acheron. I've never stopped loving you. I _can't_ stop loving you. I've castigated myself every day since I left for what I did to you—for being so stupid and abandoning you. But I couldn't stay there and watch her destroy you—wait for her to find more ways to hurt you."

He slid his arms around Ash's waist. "All I've wanted is to be back here in your arms. And I'm the worst coward in the world for avoiding it for so long but I just hated myself so much..." Everything he'd ever done—rescuing Dean and rebelling against Heaven; taking the souls of Purgatory into himself...it had all come back down to the singular self-loathing that had been festering inside of him like a parasite ever since he'd walked away from Acheron's side. 

"All I want is to make you happy...that's all I've ever wanted but I don't know how I can do that if she keeps breaking you..." He sounded so pitiful, so broken, but he didn't care. The centuries had weighed down on all that he'd tried to bury. Now, with the foundations cracking, he could feel himself falling apart—feel the pillars of his holy temple buckling as this samsonian force pushed at them. 

Acheron held him close, and Cas felt as if he could truly weather the destruction of reality so long as he had those strong arms around him. It was so odd, finding strength in his touch; Castiel had so often been the source of resilience and solitude for Acheron. Now he needed everything about this beautiful broken man or he risked falling to pieces.

He didn't know what to do—didn't even know if it would be wise to do. All he knew was that this was the only place he wanted to be, even if he couldn't entirely bring Ash the happiness he deserved. 

Acheron took the sides of Castiel's face in his hands. He looked deep into Cas's eyes as if trying to convey something that simple words would fail to do. He pressed the gentlest kiss to Cas's temple, and Cas felt his body tremble at the brief surge of power that filled him from that simple touch.

Ash dipped his head. His lips brushing against Castiel's ear, he said in a low, needful whisper three words that nearly brought Cas to his knees:

"Lie with me." 

Cas's hands slid slowly up the skin of Acheron's scarred back.  

He didn't care about the past right now. As for the present, it was right here—not on Earth where there was so much waste and ravage and desolation—not where he couldn't go three minutes without Sam and Dean's constant, toxic relationship mucking up their common sense.

It was here, with Acheron.

And if Castiel was extraordinarily lucky, the future could be as well. 

Holding Acheron to him, Cas whispered, "Yes," like it was a cry for salvation. 

Whatever careful restraint there was in Acheron broke. With the strength and agility of a wildcat, he lifted Castiel in his arms and carried him towards the bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I promise there's a thread to all of these alluded-to events.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel raced through the streets of the city as fast as his wings could carry him. Not knowing where the amphitheater was, or even how to get there with his angelic powers, he was forced to rely on navigating as best he could. 

People teemed within the city's early morning light. Markets selling everything from fresh food to jewelery and slaves buzzed with life like a bee's nest. Castiel searched over the heads of the people, trying to find Acheron's golden blonde hair, but there was no sign of him. He'd hoped to catch him on the way to the amphitheater; not knowing quite what an amphitheater was, Castiel couldn't anticipate what to expect once he reached it. If Acheron were in any kind of danger, then it would be far easier to save him from it without scores of people looking onwards. 

Forcing himself to remain placid, the angel perched nearly invisible on the roof of a temple dedicated to one of the Greek gods. He focused his energies on Acheron, on the call of his soul. 

There! Towards the Western half of the city! He heard the call, not as agonized as it usually was. Whatever Acheron was experiencing, it had soothed the constant, ravaging fire to a low burn. Castiel alighted, spreading his wings and cracking the side of a marble column with the force of his power. As an angel of God, he was above almost any other pantheon on Earth—one real blast of Heavenly power, even from one so young as himself, could have toppled the very foundations of the temple. 

Castiel flew through the air, noticing the disparity of the humans below on the periphery of his vision. Some were rich, others poor; some were homely, others beautiful. And some seemed almost unnaturally beautiful, giving off a strange aura simultaneously otherworldly, human and animal. These beings were tall, with perfect bodies and features. But they were almost too perfect, and Castiel got a sense of deep malice whenever he happened to ghost over one of them.  

Acheron's energy grew strong the closer Castiel drew to the edge of the city. He crested around a hill speckled with lavish homes nestled among the rocks and trees. 

The wave of human energy hit him like a gust of wind. Joy, excitement and expectation rolled like a perfume from hundreds of folk sitting in what appeared to be a tremendous bowl carved into the earth. They all stared at a platform at the very middle of the bowl, where a young woman cried on a pile of straw. 

Moved by her plight, Castiel flew lower over the crowd. But as he drew closer, he realized that the woman wasn't really crying—though the action was there, the emotion was not. Castiel stopped short, hovering above the heads of the crowd, watching curiously as golden water began to sprinkle on the woman's head.

It was all an act—a recreation of one of their legends. 

Castiel looked round at the audience. He could feel Acheron's soul here somewhere among them. But though there were many young men in the audience with golden blonde hair, none of them looked like Acheron; none had his height or beauty or that strange way he carried himself, as if he every moment expected to be struck or rebuked. 

Back on the stage, a warm wind off the mountains played with the woman's hair. A tall, powerful man appeared from behind a golden curtain. He was completely naked; Castiel felt the desire rolling off both the woman and the spectators. He wondered if humans really were so base as to make the lovemaking Lucifer had shown him a public spectacle. After the look into mankind, Castiel felt that there was very little they would not do on either end of the spectrum of right and wrong. 

The man took the woman in his arms. Expectant heat rolled off the crowd; their lust was so powerful that it nearly sent Castiel to the ground. 

Except that, at that moment, he chanced a look towards the side of the amphitheater. There were less extravagantly dressed and beautiful folk watching the performance from here. And among them, taller than all the rest, stood a man wearing a gray dyed cowl pulled so low over his face that it almost completely obscured his eyes. 

Acheron. 

Castiel flew towards his charge, relieved beyond words. He couldn't believe how daring Acheron was to be here, in broad daylight, among the people he claimed would have hurt him as soon as they saw his eyes. Yet the cowl was so thick and so low that they couldn't even see his face properly.

Invisible even to Acheron, Castiel landed on the stone pew just behind the beautiful young man. Acheron's awe at the beauty of the performance was so great that Castiel felt it acutely over the lustful expectation of the audience. His soul seemed truly moved by the play, and Castiel realized how rare it was for Acheron to see anything beautiful. 

His lips were parted in a soft smile below the cowl. He wasn't bursting with happiness—he was simply content. 

Castiel found that he would do anything even to elicit even such a small smile from Acheron. He kept his gaze fixed on him while he watched the play, oblivious to what was happening on stage or the reactions of the crowd. 

Then the wind picked up once more. The sudden blast of it blew the hair of several women out of their stylish sets. And it also lifted Acheron's cowl from his head.

Acheron gasped and hastily made to pull the hood back over his eyes. But it was too late. Almost as if a current had been affixed to the amphitheater, several people turned away and stared in Acheron's direction. A handful had caught a glimpse of his eyes before he'd had time to cover them.

Excited whispers passed among those nearest. Acheron was already trying to extricate himself from the rabble around him. But the curious people were forming an excited phalanx, making his exit all the more difficult. Fear and anger rolled off him, hitting Castiel like the stabbing of sharp blades.  

"Look at his eyes!" Someone shouted. A grasping hand tore the cowl from Acheron's head. Acheron closed his eyes and tried to bowl the pressing crowd aside; all thoughts of the play were forgotten; the audience wanted to see this mysterious stranger, to know where their sudden desire had come from. Something animalistic had overcome them, twisting their faces and making them desperate and rabid. 

Castiel felt his rage boil. And when several of the crowd grabbed the back of Acheron's peplos and ripped it from his body, the heat of fury reached its zenith.

With a snarl, Castiel let his power explode outwards. A great force toppled the crowd around Acheron over, sending them into the walls of the amphitheater. Acheron crouched, grasping at what remained of his clothes, trying to protect one scrap of his dignity. Castiel swooped downwards, and seized the beautiful, vulnerable man by his shoulders. Acheron gasped at the unobstructed contact with a heavenly creature. His skin felt hot as burning cinders; Castiel, meanwhile, was almost inclined to let go as he felt and saw into Acheron's soul. 

It was alike to his having touched Styxx with his wing tip that morning. Only in that he'd grown to care for Acheron, it was far worse. Castiel saw the brutalities and indignities; in some of the memories, Acheron was just a small child. Sickness swarmed within Castiel like a locust cloud; he wanted to let go, to stop the influx of pain. But he had to get Acheron from this ravenous crowd. 

Concentrating his power through the onslaught of emotion and memory, he pulled both himself and Acheron through space. The frenzied roar of the crowd disappeared, giving way to the still, silence of Acheron's pithy little chamber. 

Acheron was panting, staring around in confusion and fear. For a moment, Castiel couldn't understand his bewilderment. Then, realizing that he'd made himself invisible, he shimmered into his indistinct, liquid gold form. 

There were two large, red hand prints on either side of Acheron's shoulders. Acheron stared at them, still clutching the remains of his clothing to his front. His eyes brimming with accusation and hurt, he said, as if he couldn't quite believe it, "You hurt me." 

Castiel felt as if he'd been impaled. He also felt hot anger scorch through him; he'd saved Acheron from degradation and all he was concerned about was that Castiel had accidentally branded him? 

But then he realized that pain was something Acheron had come to expect; and pain from one he'd trusted, even a modicum, was even more par for the course. 

Castiel didn't know if he truly could help anymore. At least not in this form. 

He glided towards the wall, dejected and reeling.

Acheron called out a sharp, "Wait."

Castiel stopped.

Acheron still clutched his peplos over his modesty. He heaved his shoulders; already the searing handprints that Castiel had left on his skin had turned from an angry red to a rosy pink. 

"Thank you. For saving me from them." His eyes turned bitter. Almost to himself, he said, "I just wanted to see the play...to see if there was really was something like you in Danae's story. But Zeus didn't save her. He just fucked her."

He sounded lost, almost like a little boy. 

Castiel closed the space between them. "I only want to help you, Acheron."

"So many people have. Their help was what got me here." Acheron gazed at Castiel thoughtfully. Then he dropped his peplos to the ground. "Can you honestly tell me that seeing me like this doesn't make you want to take from me?"

Castiel shook his head. "Even if I could, I wouldn't. I have no carnal desires, Acheron. I'm not like Man." Only he was in that he'd taken advantage of a moment's free will to leave Heaven and the Father behind. 

Acheron seemed to be determining something for himself. It was as if he were warring with parts of his own mind. "Maybe not like this you don't," he gestured at Castiel's indistinct body. "Obviously you can touch me. But if you had the same senses as any other human..." He stared hard at Castiel. "My own sister feels these things from me, and she's been the only one who has tried to keep me safe. The most sacred bond, and she can barely control herself when she’s around me."

Even as the bite of his words cut Castiel to the quick, the whisper of a plan began to form in his mind. Still, unable to help himself, he asked, "And Styxx?"

Acheron scowled, sitting on the edge of his bed. "What about him?"

"Have you ever tried to tell him?"

"He wouldn't care."

Even in his relative inexperience, Castiel knew it would be futile to try and suggest that Styxx's soul suffered the same as Acheron's.  

"Castiel? That's what you said your name was, right?"

"Yes."

"Well...thank you, again, Castiel. But there's no help for me."

"You're wrong."

"And if you were to help me," Acheron said, his voice dripping with skepticism, "how exactly would you go about doing that aside from spiriting me away from anyone who wants a piece of my body?"

 _I would help you by taking you far away from here,_ Castiel thought _. I would help you by taking the pain in your soul away; by making you smile like you did when you were at the amphitheater_." 

But he realized that that was what he wanted to make Acheron happy. All he'd ever known was the whims and wants of others. Castiel realized that he didn't want to steer Acheron towards happiness as he saw fit. Making him happy, certainly, but not the way he, Castiel, seemed fit.

"However you want," Castiel said at last. "I will do everything in my power to ease your soul, Acheron. I would swear it, but I'm doubtful that you would believe any promise ever made to you."

Acheron laughed hollowly then fell silent. Castiel hovered in anticipation, not daring to hope that Acheron would finally let him in. 

Again, the ghost of true hope lit up in Acheron's eyes, only to die almost as quickly. 

"I'd like to believe you," he said quietly. "Gods, I must be a bigger idiot than I realized. It's only that...well, there's been strange things happening around me before. Things I can't explain that they beat me and break me over. If they were to witness the kind of thing that happened at the amphitheater..."

There was no need to elaborate. Those fearful, cruel people around Acheron would think him master of some fell spirit. Even to one as newly initiated as Castiel, there was no need to guess what new brutality would come Acheron's way in that event. 

Never before had Castiel hated his angelic trappings. But even as he raged against creation itself, the plan that had germinated in the back of his mind began to blossom into splendid actuality. Acheron had doubted Castiel's ability to control himself outside of his angelic form; Acheron needed to be kept safe but in such a way that didn't draw anymore unwanted attention his way. Castiel was an angel—by the hierarchy of creation, he was dominant over man. 

What if he took the shape of man? Or took the body of one? Such things were whispered about, especially among the archangels. Rumors that it was possible to seize the body of a human...Lucifer had spoken almost out of experience when he'd told Castiel all about the trials and travails of mankind...almost as if he'd once lived among them.

Castiel burned at the possibility. It was so outlandish that he wasn't even sure it would work or even could work. In any case, he wanted to do something to prove to Acheron, in whatever way possible, that he wanted nothing from him—only the chance to offer comfort. 

"What would make you happy right now, Acheron?"

Acheron snorted. "Getting out. Of here. Even if just for a little while. That was why I snuck out to the amphitheater this morning. I want to go to a place where there's no one around for miles." He sighed wistfully. "If I had my way, I’d go to the ocean."

Castiel brightened. "I can take you there."

Acheron eyed him warily. 

"I won't burn you this time," Castiel added quickly. "I was just...very angry in the amphitheater."

"You can feel anger?"

"And many things besides." Castiel found that he rather enjoyed this broad scope of emotion. So much of his time was spent solely worshipping the Father; but here on Earth, even with its capacity for cruelty, there was so much more to experience than in Heaven.  

Acheron looked out the window of his chamber. The want to believe Castiel's words momentarily showed on every last line of his face. Then once more he gave way to morosity. 

"They'll know I'm gone."

"And I'll make them suffer if they try to do anything about it." Castiel stilled at his own words, feeling as if they'd been dug up from some deep, sulphurous place. The words terrified him, yes, but were also exciting in that he knew them to be perfectly true. 

Acheron smiled in wan surprise. "You say your god is the god of love and mercy?"

"He is. Angels are, um, free to explore facets of existence at our leisure."

Acheron rose. His peplos had all but been torn to shreds by the crowd. Undeterred by this, however, he wrapped his blankets over his shoulder and pinned them with the copper joiner of his ruined clothes. 

As he moved, Castiel was suddenly reminded of full, amber sunlight dancing along the surface of the horizon. Acheron was physically attractive, yes, but there was something more there—something rather like Castiel's appreciation for one of his Father's creations. There was beauty in Acheron beyond his handsome face and lean body. Castiel wondered if he was experiencing the carnal pull that had caused the audience to claw at Acheron's clothing, and the thought filled him with dread. But he realized that his appreciation for Acheron's beauty was not based in wanting to take from him—he simply saw the young man as he was. 

As though burned by Castiel's gaze, Acheron righted himself from collecting the wreck of his peplos. 

"When you've lost as much clothing as I have," he said, "you learn to improvise very quickly." 

Castiel stretched his wings, adding the smallest touch of his grace. Acheron all but sighed at the feeling. 

"I could get used to that," he said, stepping closer to Castiel. 

"Here's hoping you do," Castiel replied. 

Lucifer had taken him to the ocean on their voyage around the world. Castiel wasn't entirely sure which ocean it was, but it mattered not. He thought of the place, keeping an intangible hand on Acheron's shoulder. He noticed Acheron flinch at the touch. Ignoring the stirring pity and mingled frustration, Castiel thought of the ocean. Once more space pressed in on the two of them. This time when the brief sensation passed, they were standing on rocky outcroppings overlooking a seemingly endless expanse of water. 

Acheron gasped.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asked instantly, looking around for some sign of trouble or injury. 

 But they were both alone here—completely and utterly.  

"I'm fine," Acheron said, his voice rife with disbelief as he stared at the churning waves. "I just didn't think you would actually take me here, is all." 

Castiel's wings twitched in annoyance. 

Acheron eyed him almost apologetically. Still with that wonder in his voice he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any offense."

"I'm not offended," Castiel said quickly. "Just irritated." He truly was, for the first time in his being he felt the gnawing prickle of annoyance. "It isn't fair that you don't believe it when someone says they have only the best intentions." 

Acheron looked at the rocks below his bare feet. Salty, cold ocean spray dashed against them, but Acheron didn't seem to mind it in the least. 

"Can I show you something?" He asked hesitantly. 

"Of course." Castiel spread his wings. Acheron stared, almost mesmerized by the indistinct span. 

"How is that you look so intangible, yet you can touch my skin and leave a brand?"

"I will it," Castiel explained. "This is but the easiest shape for you to comprehend. If you were to look upon me in my true heavenly form, you would burn to ashes."

"Like Semele in the story," Acheron remarked. "Zeus showed her his godly form and it burned her to a crisp, leaving only her unborn baby behind." 

Castiel ruffled his wings in disgust. "This Zeus sounds like a monster." 

Acheron shrugged. "Most of them are in the tales." Remembering that he had something to show Castiel, he reached a tentative hand forth and brushed his fingers against the angel's wings. 

Castiel felt the memory as acutely as if it were his own.

_An island surrounded by the sea. A youth with golden curls and a girl not much older knelt in the sand, speaking in low voices. Something like comprehension dawned on the boy's face. Castiel saw the boy's eyes, and let out a small gasp. This was Acheron, only several years younger. There was still that heir of hardship about him, but he looked more innocent than he did presently. A heralding trumpet sounded; Acheron's face lit up, but the girl's paled and filled with terror. She tried to pull Acheron back, but it was too late. He hurried across the sand towards a grand convoy. A richly dressed man stepped stopped dead in his tracks as e crossed the sand. When Acheron attempted to embrace him, the man flung him aside like a mongrel. Acheron's white eyes brimmed with confusion, then pain as, a moment later, the older man struck him on the head with a golden staff. Blood gushed from Acheron’s forehead, and he clutched at it, wailing in pain and misery._

"No more," Castiel whispered. "Please..."

Acheron broke the connection. 

"Funny," he remarked softly. "I say those exact words all the time."

Despite his not needing the necessity of it, Castiel sank to the ground, staring out over the ocean, which seemed calm compared to the turmoil raging within him.

"Who was the man?"

"My father."

"And the girl?"

"Ryssa. My sister." Acheron sat next to Castiel, knees drawn up to his chest. "She lied a lot. That day was after she came to take me from Atlantis. I was sold into slavery when I was a child. Most of my life was spent as a _tsoulus_." He paused, as if waiting for some kind of rebuke or show of disgust. But Castiel didn't know exactly what Acheron meant; in any event, he was too chilled with horror at the notion of Acheron's family treating him so cruelly. 

"Do you know," Ash went on, "that you're the first person I've ever met who hasn't reacted to my saying that as if I'd just rolled around in a pile of horse shit? But of course, you don't even know what a _tsoulus_ is, do you Castiel?"

"No."

"A sex slave."

Castiel wanted to scream at the revelation. He recalled what Lucifer had told him about humans turning the act of love into base debauchery. Never had he thought that they would extend it to children. 

"Ryssa tried to make me think that it had all been some kind of mistake," Acheron went on bitterly. "And I believed her. I really believed her. I thought that my father would be happy to be reunited with me." Acheron shook his head. "I need scarcely say I was wrong. I thought so much would change, but it got even worse. At least as a tsoulus I was taken care of—pampered when the wealthy wanted to fuck me. When they took me to Didymos...I've never had a choice. They threw me in the dungeons and only let me free when Styxx started to starve."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

Acheron sighed. "Whenever I feel pain, Styxx feels it too. I don't know how or why. Probably some trick of the gods. But it was only because of him that they moved me to that room." 

Castiel had never heard of such a thing, although it seemed to explain part of Styxx's own pain. He wondered if the favored son had felt it whenever Acheron had been misused by the patrons in Atlantis.

Acheron made great pains to keep his voice even, but his words shook as he went on. "I tried to run away after they locked me in that chamber. Back to Atlantis. I would have taken the rest of my life being fucked under the influence of eycharistisi—that's a kind of drug they give the tsoulus to keep us aroused—than stay in Didymos and be clawed at and fucked by the senators who wanted to get revenge on Styxx through me. But they found me; they brought me back. And now there's no way out..."

His chest heaved. Castiel saw tears sliding down his face, though he made no sound. Slowly, as if afraid of scaring him away, Castiel draped his wing around Acheron's shoulder. This time, he did not let his grace flow—he didn't want the brevity of it to lead to more disappointment. But his wings still ebbed with soothing warmth. And for once, Acheron did not flinch away from the touch. He sat there on the rocks with the ocean crashing against the sandy beach below, crying silently. 

In that moment, Castiel felt his desire to be Acheron's salvation solidify into something as solid and unshakable as the very stone they sat upon. No matter what the consequence, he would do everything he could to help this abused, broken man. 

After several moments, Acheron finally recovered himself. He inhaled the salty air of the ocean. 

"Tell me something, Castiel. Can you hear anything besides the wind and the waves and the gulls right now?"

Castiel paused.

Yes.

He could hear it. Just below the cries of Acheron's soul and the sounds of the seaside, he heard a strange language. It sounded almost like singing, only it wasn't the kind of song that resonated throughout Heaven. It was insidious, disturbing...hypnotic. Even if he couldn't discern the words, he knew their meaning: _come to us, drown with us, belong to us...  
_

"I used to think that I was insane," Acheron said quietly. "I’ve heard them all my life. But you can hear them as well, can't you?"

"I can. But--"

"I don't want to go to them," Acheron went on. "It's just that there's something about them...it feels familiar. Like it's the way home is supposed to sound. I've never had that. Never felt safe or hopeful or comforted." He glanced sideways at Castiel, his face a smooth mask of indiscernible emotion. 

Abruptly, Acheron got to his feet. "Do you think we could stay here for a little while longer?"

"As long as you want to, Acheron."

In a matter of seconds, Acheron had clambered down the rocks to the sand with surprising ease. Castiel stayed on the ledge, feeling that Acheron needed at least a degree of privacy. He watched as Acheron walked almost wistfully along the shoreline, the tide pooling around his bare feet. And as he watched, he allowed the semi-formed plan he'd been dwelling on ever since he'd rescued Acheron to overwhelm him. 

He wanted to ask Lucifer's opinion; but Castiel didn't think his older brother had high thoughts of humans to begin with. Whatever the archangel thought of Castiel's course of action wouldn't be remotely encouraging. Besides, what did Castiel need Lucifer's permission for, when Lucifer was so fond of bending the rules of Heaven anyway?

He was an angel. He held dominion over man. He wanted to help Acheron, and to do so, he would have to walk among mankind. 

Hours lengthened. The sun shone high in the sky. Still, it seemed as if Acheron couldn't get his fill of the ocean. He walked the length of the shoreline and back; he waded out into the water until it swirled around his knees. His soul was almost as serene as that of a man who hadn't seen the same kind of horrors that Acheron had witnessed. It touched something within Castiel, something new and strange and exciting. It was the same sensation he had when he'd witnessed the simple beauty in the grace of an animal or the blushing petals of a flower. He felt moved by Acheron's peace...happy. 

At long last, when the sun began to turn towards the horizon, Acheron returned to the rocks, picking his way carefully up to Castiel. The hand prints on his shoulders had faded to white scars; a tremor passed through Castiel at the realization that he had permanently marked Acheron, even if it had been accidental. 

Acheron noticed the heat of Castiel's gaze. He gently ran his fingers over the hand print on his opposite shoulder. He no longer seemed angry at the brand; if anything, he looked pleased by it. 

"Not the worst scars I've ever gotten," he mused. "Not by a long shot." He turned his eyes back to Castiel, almost resignedly. "I suppose I overstayed my welcome here."

"You did say that they would take notice of your absence."

Acheron sighed. He looked back at the beach. Castiel knew that he hated to leave it.

"I'll take you back here any time you like," Castiel added quickly.

For once, there was sincerity in Acheron's tiny smile, like that of a small boy with a joyful secret in his heart. 

"Thank you," he said. He held out his hand. Castiel knew from all that Lucifer had shown him, that in the world of Men, taking another by the hand carried a degree of intimacy. It was so strange that he'd branded Acheron's skin, seen and heard the depths of his tormented soul and even seen him naked, yet taking him by the hand now felt almost significant. But it was in that Acheron was offering the touch willingly that made it seem so.

Castiel laid his hand over Acheron's. 

The next second they were back in his chamber in Didymos. Sunlight filtered through the window, golden and low. Soon it would be dusk. Castiel remembered that Lucifer had bid him remain on Earth for one mortal day, but he no longer had any intentions of doing so.

Acheron looked around his chamber, the familiar hardness returning to his face. He let out a pitiful sigh. "Leaving again, I suppose?" 

"I'll return to you," Castiel promised Acheron. "If you want me to, at least." 

"At least." Acheron sighed wearily as he fell back against the pillows. For a moment, Castiel debated leaving Acheron alone at all. Now that he knew that Styxx meant his brother no harm, however, he didn't feel as uneasy about leaving Acheron alone. 

In any case, he didn't plan on being gone for very long. 

He floated through the ceiling, looking out at Didymos as the sun began to set over the ocean. 

All the whisperings he'd heard among the heavenly host came back to him—rumors that a handful of angels had taken to visiting Earth and assuming the guise of humans in order to procreate with mortal women and men. Castiel had been horrified and embarrassed at the very idea, but he'd also been admittedly curious. 

He had more than enough reason to want to walk among them as them now. And there was only one soul of all he'd seen that day who had nothing left to lose.  

Castiel shimmered to the alley he’d visited earlier that day with Lucifer. The same wretched man who had been scraping at the ground and pulling out his own hair earlier that day was there now, covered in dirt and blood and hovering beneath a pitiful shelter of sticks and tied together cloth. The alley was empty, which suited Castiel's ends perfectly. 

Making himself just barely discernible, he moved towards the wretch. The man trembled and looked away, his terror evident. Castiel stretched his wings out, letting them glide across the man's filthy face. Memories invaded him—of a life as a soldier; of a family taken by disease; of failure after failure taking its toll on a mind that had once been so keen and alert. 

"Dimitri?" Castiel whispered, discerning the poor beggar's name from among the ravages of his mind and spirit. 

Dimitri nodded, his eyes streaming with tears. Through his memories, and this close up, Castiel saw that Dimitri wasn't as physically ravaged as he looked beneath the dirt caking his face. He was actually quite young, only a few years older than Acheron. His eyes, blue as a frozen ocean, stared wide and tear-filled at Castiel. 

"Will you let me?" He showed the wretch what would await his soul in paradise: the comfort and the salvation with all other souls who went to Heaven. 

Dimitri let out a shuddering breath, and then nodded. 

The act was all but barbaric, and Castiel nearly refused to go through with it. He gripped Dimitri's battered soul and rent it from his body. The sensation felt brutal, but there was also a mercy in the act, in that he was sending the man's soul to a better place. Shining like a firefly, the soul of Dimitri took flight heavenwards, visible only to a select few that night. 

Castiel found himself looking at a vacant husk of a human body. The light in Dimitri's eyes had disappeared, and it was quite possibly the most unsettling thing he'd seen in the physical that day. 

He didn't know what would happen once he took possession of Dimitri's body—only that he had to if he wanted to be of any use to Acheron. 

He felt as if he were stepping away from Heaven's gate once more. Only this time he knew the permanency of his actions. He filled the void left by Dimitri's soul, spreading through the carapace of his body. He was aware of a thousand different sensations, each one newer and more alluring than the last. His angelic powers threatened to push the bounds of Dimitri's body; pain like fiery blades seared him, bringing him to his knees as his skin seared with heavenly force. He concentrated on distributing his power through every portion of Dimitri's body, creating a balance that all but vibrated in its fleshly vessel.  

Castiel opened his eyes—his human eyes. He couldn't see through the night as well as with his angelic vision; could smell, yes, but not discern the location of every scent. And all that he heard was limited to the rudiments of his ears. He felt the cold against his skin and the ache of Dimitri's bones and muscles. But there were no more memories, no more emotions associated with the man. 

Castiel gazed down at his hands, flexing fingers that, while they looked somewhat similar to his angelic fingers, weren't anywhere near as long. Dimitri had strong hands from his years of battle, but they were so caked in dirt and grime that they looked black.

Cold night wind caressed his face. Castiel shivered at the piercing sensation. He wore only the same rags that Dimitri had worn likely for years at a time. That the man had lived long enough to become a vessel for Castiel’s spirit was a testament to the tenacity of his soul. 

And as he looked searchingly around the dank alley, he realized that he was a long way off from the palace. But even as panic threatened to wreak havoc in his mind, he knew that he had all but to flex the angelic power still brewing within him to access what it was that he needed. He was still Castiel, but now with a body of flesh and bone and sinew.

He felt his powers gather, but just before he teleported, he felt a wave of energy so strong that it stopped him dead. He recognized both signatures, one he had been with only that day: it was rife with gravitas and confidence. The other, not quite as equal in power, brimmed with a sense of honor and duty. 

Castiel turned and saw the indistinct shapes of Lucifer, red and black and resplendent with his wings stretched wide, and Michael, blue and gold and stern. Both filled every inch of the alley with their awe-inspiring might and presence.

"Castiel," Lucifer said blithely, "I thought I told you to come back before the end of the day." 

In spite of the tremor of fear and guilt that ran through him at the sight of the two archangels, Castiel stood his ground. He held his chin high and said, "You said I had _one_ Earth day, from what I recall."

Lucifer glowed in an almost approving way; Michael's eyes flashed like hot coals. 

"You weren't to leave at all," Michael said angrily. "The Father hadn't commanded it. We're bringing you back and you are never to leave the gate again."

"No."

Michael stiffened. Lucifer cocked his head to the side.  

"No?" Lucifer repeated. "Castiel, the Father bids you return. You don't want to disobey his orders, do you?" Again, there was no force behind his words—it was as if he were simply saying what was expected of him.

Castiel felt his heart beating so fast that it almost drowned out all thought. He knew that the archangels could destroy his vessel without so much as lifting a finger—not that they would, but the terror of their being able to was still very real.

"I'm not going back," he said, his voice shaking despite his determination. "I'm needed here where I can actually do good." 

“We are not to meddle in their affairs unless the Father commands it!" Michael said sharply.

"And tell me," Castiel said, hurt and betrayal at the Father all but choking his words, "what good are His commands when he doesn't even pay attention to them? To the things that he loves so much?"

"How dare you, you blasphemous—

"Michael! Enough!" Lucifer glided forth. His starlit eyes looked at Castiel searchingly. Without speaking for Michael to hear, he reached out to Castiel's mind and said, "It's for him, isn't it? Your screaming soul? That’s why you took possession of a human body, isn’t it?"

Castiel nodded.

Out loud, Lucifer asked, almost wonderingly, "How does it feel, little brother?"

Staring directly at the immensity of his brother's starry face, Castiel said, "Better than Heaven."

Thunder shook the alley; Michael's wrath nearly sent Castiel sprawling to the dirt. He expected the archangel to truly charge him down; instead, Michael took to the heavens in a splinter of lighting, leaving the air behind him charged with electricity. 

Lucifer lingered behind, and for a moment, Castiel saw the briefest shadow of his true form filling the narrow alley, terrible and beautiful as a relentless storm. Lucifer sighed, and there was something almost heartbroken in the noise. 

"Here." A stiff wind blew over Castiel. The dirt and grime and filth that had covered Dimitri's body disappeared; his ratty clothes were replaced by a pale gold chiton pinned at one shoulder with a blue cloak around his shoulders. His hair flew freely, the black curls clean of dirt and rocks and lice. 

"Much more becoming for any brother of mine," Lucifer said. Then he rose and looked heavenward. "You really choose them over us?" He sounded both incredulous and slightly impressed.

"No," Castiel said, shaking his head. "I choose _him._ " 

"How perfectly noble of you. Goodbye, little brother. And remember: I'm watching over you, always. They may denounce you, all the others in Heaven. But know that you will always be my brother. Always."

And without another word, he followed Michael back to the heavens, turning into a streak of brilliant white light that momentarily dazzled Castiel's now human eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to admit that it's been about nine years since I read Acheron. There are probably a few things that are a bit out of order and possibly incorrect. Hopefully it isn't too glaring.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel had tasted Acheron sparingly when they'd first known each other all those centuries ago. Desire had been new to him in those days, and the last thing he’d wanted was to be alike to those people who’d taken Acheron’s body over his life. Even though they had slept side by side on innumerable nights, Castiel had always been careful to tread a line.

Now, without any of those old barriers between them, he thirsted for Acheron's lips and touch like a drunken man. 

Acheron was strong enough to keep Castiel held in his arms as they crossed to the bed. Castiel sought his lips, and felt as if could have cried in frustration when, at last, Ash laid him on the covers of the mattress. 

But when Acheron crawled along the dark, silky sheets with ravenous desire in his eyes, all petulant thought disappeared. Castiel's heart nearly burst from his chest when he felt the heat and weight of Acheron cover him.

Ash ground into him, the prodigious hardness in the front of his leather pants meeting the friction in Castiel's strength for strength. Cas grasped Acheron's back and shoulders, seeking the hard heat of Acheron's groin against his own with desperate upward thrusts. He'd so rarely paid any heed to that part of his anatomy; even on the odd occasions that it had stirred, Castiel had willed himself to ignore it. Sex was only a reminder of what he'd denied himself with Acheron, and though Dean mercilessly ribbed him over his eternal virginity, Cas had never wanted to indulge. 

Not unless it had been with Acheron. 

Ash smirked, bracing his arms on either said of Castiel's face. His hair fell in a curtain of gold, the shadows it caused making his eyes shine all the more like the moon over a golden field.

"Going to make me work for it, aren't you, angel wings?" He trailed a hand to Castiel's tie and pulled it out from the collar of his button up. “You were never this overdressed in Didymos.”

Castiel responded by trailing his hand down Acheron's back and squeezing one firm globe of his ass through his pants. 

Ash arched a brow. "That wasn't a very angelic thing to do," he said with a muffled grunt.

"I told you," Cas said huskily. "I'm a Fallen Angel, now." With that, he tucked his fingers into Acheron's pants and slid them down his waist. Ash gasped at the sudden exposure. Startled at his own brazenness, Castiel stared at Acheron, unsure if he'd crossed the line too fast. 

Acheron grinned, dipped his head and captured Castiel's mouth with his own. The heat and feel of Acheron's tongue caused Cas to buck upwards; his fingers curled into the skin of Acheron's ass; Ash chuckled into Castiel's mouth, and nipped his bottom lip with his fangs. 

"Getting a little tired of being the only one underdressed," Ash murmured. He still clutched Cas's tie in his fist. Sitting back on his legs with his pants around his knees, Ash smoothed the front of Castiel's shirt. His erection curved against the flats of his abdomen, hard as steel, tempting and…

Castiel gulped. Of course, he'd seen Acheron naked before, but never so achingly aroused. 

Ash cocked his head to the side. "What's wrong?"

"You're so...big," Cas said with oblivious bluntness that would have made Dean guffaw. His fingers shaking, he reached out and brushed his fingertips against Acheron's shaft. 

Ash's breath hitched in his throat. "Do you want to stop?"

"Do I look like I've lost my mind to you?"

Acheron smirked again. He thrust into the cage of Castiel's fingers. "No. But you do look like you've lost your restraint." 

"I _need_ you," Cas breathed, as if either of them required a reminder; Acheron felt so incredible beneath his touch—hard as rock but somehow soft and velvety. "It's just...I don't know what to do."

He hated admitting it. Of course, he knew the _act_ of sex—had had it shown to him by Lucifer and seen it in the memories of Acheron, Styxx and Jimmy Novak. Dean had delighted in describing sex at length, just to see Castiel squirm. Dean’s recounting had described the act between man and woman, and Cas wasn't so ignorant as to think it would work at all the same with men. 

Acheron's fingers closed around Cas's, guiding him along the length of his cock. "It's going to hurt," Acheron said softly. "I can't lie to you about that. Even taking care of you properly, there will still be some pain."

"Pain? Where?"

Never taking his eyes off Castiel for a second, Acheron released his grip around Cas's fingers. His hand slid behind Cas's tailbone and dove under the hem of his dark slacks and further still below his boxer briefs. Cas gasped at the feeling of Acheron's fingers against the skin of his ass, and then rutted against Ash's groin as Ash slid one finger between the cleft of his cheeks. 

"Here," Acheron whispered by way of response. "It’s going to hurt here. You're inexperienced and I'm not a small man.” That was certainly true enough. Again, Cas’s eyes drank in the sight of Acheron’s hardness. “But I promise I will try to make it as pleasurable for you as I can. I owe you that much for all you did for me."

"You don't owe me anything, Acheron," Castiel said. Ash smiled, and withdrew his hand from Castiel's pants. Still sitting on his knees, he gripped the middle of Cas's button-up and yanked it open. Plastic white buttons flew into the air, bouncing off the bed frame and onto the floor. 

Cas barely had time to be startled before Acheron was on him, his tongue and lips and teeth nipping at his nipples and skin while his fingers worked Cas's belt and fly open. 

It was beyond anything Castiel had ever thought it would be. What acts of love he'd witnessed in his time had been mostly the same debased brutality inflicted upon Acheron and Styxx. Cas had shirked such urges out of fear that he would ever end up the way the people who'd tormented Acheron with sex.

But this?

The feel of his exposed skin—the first shock of realizing that he was naked as Acheron pulled Cas's slacks free and threw them into a corner—was the headiest intoxication he'd ever felt. It defied the power of the bloodthirsty rage he'd felt when Ash had first been taken away from him; the loyalty he felt for Dean and Sam, the glory of the souls of Purgatory...it all paled in comparison with the sensation of Acheron's warm skin and searching touch. 

He needed the wet heat of Acheron's kiss; craved the searing brand of his touch and the relentless friction of his body.

Ash nipped and kissed at the skin of Castiel’s throat, his fingers curling into Cas's hair. Castiel's blood sang with the thrill that Ash would bite and drink from him. He wanted to pull Ash closer, to tangle his own fingers through golden hair and bid him drink his fill. 

Castiel's hands, roaming over Acheron's ass and back and shoulders, slid up his neck, searching, grasping.

Then he froze, breaking away from yet another breath-stealing kiss. Cas stared wide-eyed at Acheron, the apology forming on his lips as he silently berated himself for having nearly brought disaster on this beautiful perfection.

"I told you," Acheron rasped. "It's okay if you do it."

"But--"

"No. I want you, Cas. All of you. Everything you have to give me."

"I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to be like her. Or like them." 

Acheron cupped Castiel's face in his hands and kissed him sweetly. "You won't hurt me. You’ve never hurt me. I trust you, Castiel. More than anyone else." He trailed his hand down Castiel's chest and lower to his groin. Cas gasped as he felt Acheron take him in his hand. His hands were so big that Cas's cock was almost completely covered by the breadth and length of his fingers. He stroked Cas, the slick sound wreaking havoc on what little control Castiel had. Acheron stared deeply into Cas's eyes; he was inviting him to do something, and it didn't take long for Cas to realize what.

Slowly, still reeling from the feel of Acheron stroking him, Castiel slid his hands up Acheron's shoulders, then to the back of his neck. Ash's touch grazed from Cas's length to his balls. He trailed on long finger along the crease of Castiel's perineum and then, at last, delved between his ass cheeks. 

A strangled yell escaped Castiel's lips; he rutted against Ash's body; his fingers curled into Acheron's hair at the feeling of being breached so intimately. 

Smiling in a way that would have put the Big Bad Wolf to shame, Acheron kissed Castiel once more. Cas groaned into his mouth, gripping Acheron's hair. He knew there would be more than this; he could feel the immense strength of Acheron's hardness against his thigh—knew that the finger moving slow and deftly within him would be replaced by that magnificent steeliness. 

"Acheron," Cas whispered, almost warningly. The pleasure of even this was almost too much to take.

"You want me, Cas?"

"Yes."

Ash withdrew his finger. Placing his hands on Castiel's hips, he pulled him forward.

"Put your legs around my waist," Ash murmured. 

Cas didn't need to be asked twice. Acheron kept his hand at the small of Castiel's back as Cas braced his legs either side of Ash's hips. They were all but eye to eye, Castiel poised on the precipice of ecstasy. 

"Hi," he whispered, not knowing what else to say but feeling like he had to say something. 

Acheron laughed softly. "Hi, angel." They moved as one towards each other and Cas felt his body seize at the contact. 

Acheron hadn't lied—it _was_ painful. But there was something beyond the pain—a sort of beauty in that he was being joined with this remarkable god of a man after so many centuries away.

Cas gasped at each thrust, his arms locked around Acheron's chest as if clinging for dear life. He could feel everything of Acheron—his strength, his skin, his breath, his scent. He'd never thought it possible to feel so complete—hadn't even known the true scope of how much of him was missing until he had the pieces filled by the only being in all of time who'd ever held his heart. 

Cas's wings burst forth from his back as the unbearable pleasure mounted to a white-hot crescendo. His lips captured Acheron's as the tension within him exploded in a rolling torrent of sensation. He'd never experienced anything so absolute, so overwhelming.

Acheron groaned into Cas's mouth, and then pushed him backwards onto the mattress. His hair hung around his face as his thrust into Castiel. His neck arched backwards as he came with a cry and a shudder. 

Acheron stilled in the aftermath of his orgasm; a look of such profound peace passed over his face that Castiel, despite feeling utterly boneless and weak, raised a shaking arm and brushed the backs of his knuckles along the cut of Acheron's jaw. 

Opening his eyes, Acheron smiled, and then kissed Cas softly. He rolled over, and Castiel barely had time to register disappointment at having the heat and weight disappear before Ash had him in his arms once more, pulling him against his chest. 

“Tell me I didn’t hurt you too much.” He sounded terrified at the very notion.

Cas nestled into the strength of Acheron’s arms, his whole body deliciously sore. "You didn't hurt me. I’ve never felt anything that good before.”

Acheron smiled in relief. "I’m glad. I’m really glad.”

The room felt as if it were becoming dimmer. Castiel listened to the beat of Acheron's heart—breathed in the smell of his skin and sweat. Heaven was nothing compared to this, even in the days when it had been a true paradise. He felt he could stay here forever, and truly wanted nothing more than just that. 

Acheron's chest rose and fell evenly as sleep wrapped him round. Cas himself felt the alluring pull of slumber. Fulfilled from the act of finally making love to Acheron, Castiel allowed himself to relax for the first time in centuries—allowed the caress of sleep to take hold. Safe in Acheron's arms, he fell asleep for the first time since the Stone Age.  

After several minutes of floating through an infinite void, he felt Acheron's body tense, and woke up at once. Ash still lay beside him, but his eyes were wide open, his jaw set grimly. 

"What's wrong?" Cas sat up, looking around the room. A quick flex of his powers told him that they were both still alone on Katoteros—not that anyone else could set foot there without Acheron's permission. 

"It's her," Ash said quietly. "She's requesting an audience."

Anger came so quickly and so strongly to Castiel that it caused one ebony post of Acheron's bend to splinter in the middle. 

Ash sat up, looking at the long, spidery rent in his priceless furniture. "I get you're pissed, but to take it out an something that never did you a moment of harm. This bed is innocent, Cas. Well, mostly innocent." His eyes raked over Cas's naked body.

"I'm sorry," Cas said. "I just thought..." He paused, his eyes finding the scars on Acheron's body.

Crawling over the covers so that he knelt next to Ash, Cas placed his hands on Ash's shoulders—at the same spots his heavenly brand had been in Acheron's mortal life. A pale gold light glowed from beneath Cas's hands; he fused memories of himself and Acheron—of the times when he'd made Ash smile or given him comfort; of their reunion and the love they'd just shared—Into the touch. Acheron's skin glowed with the white imprints of Castiel's hands for the briefest moment before disappearing. 

"Think of me," Cas said, "and she won't be able to hurt you. Not the way she has before."

Acheron stared at him with unbridled adoration in his eyes. He rose to his knees and took Castiel in his arms once more, kissing him gently.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll try not to be long...as if I had any choice in the matter."

"I should check in on Sam and Dean," Cas said, although for a reason that had everything to do with wanting to be next to a naked Acheron again, he wasn't as keen on the idea as usual. Fixing Ash with a determined stare he added, "If she keeps you there any longer than is absolutely necessary, I will be stopping in to prepare her for Simi’s barbecue.”

Acheron kissed Castiel lightly again, and then climbed off the bed. "Just because she wants me doesn't mean I'm going to jump right now. We both need to clean ourselves up, if you get my meaning." He paused by the door to the adjoining bathroom. Still stark naked, he cut a mouth-watering figure. Looking back to the room he added, "I'm asking if you'd like to have sex with me in the shower, Cas."

Cas teleported to Acheron’s side in the blink of an eye. "I'd have to be insane to refuse," he said hungrily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to think that this chapter would make SK proud...at least, if she actually had an LGBT couple in the Dark Hunter universe.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

By night, the palace in Didymos was lit by the amber glow of burning braziers and candle sconces. Castiel had noticed the gentle gleam when he'd flown through the place after falling from Heaven. He supposed that others such as Styxx and Acheron's sister, Ryssa, had cheerful hearths and candle holders in their own chambers. They would sleep, he guessed, with the safety of orange firelight bathing their chambers.  

But not Acheron.

He slept in near total darkness, the only light that of the moon filtering in through the small window of his chamber. 

Castiel shimmered from the edge of Didymos to the dark, moonlit chamber of smooth sandstone. Acheron slept soundly, his soul only a mild whisper of agitation.

Castiel felt his skin—his human skin—flush with an inner delight at the thought that their day by the ocean had caused that peace in Acheron's soul. 

The sensations he felt within this vessel were alien to him, but also exciting. He could correlate the emotions and thoughts to specific ways his body reacted—to the way his gaze softened at Acheron's quietly slumbering form; or how his breath caught in his throat when Acheron's face twitched.

He was having a nightmare, Castiel realized. Standing to one side of Acheron's bed, Castiel tried to let his grace flow. 

Nothing happened. 

Frowning, Castiel attempted once more, focusing on his need to comfort Acheron in the throes of his nightmare. Again, nothing happened. 

Castiel allowed himself one moment of panic before he realized what had changed: in his angelic form, he'd been a being of pure heavenly energy. Exerting his grace had been as easy as a thought because part of what made him was the grace of the Father. Now, with a physical body, he had to make real contact if he hoped to pass his grace on through contact. 

Castiel stretched his hand forth; inches away from the skin of Acheron's branded shoulder he stopped. Acheron wouldn't like it if he were touched without permission. Even if all Castiel wanted to do was give peace, he wouldn't violate the sanctity of Acheron's trust to do so. 

Yet to stand there and watch Acheron twitch and grunt in his sleep—to hear his soul begin to stir and scream—was truly almost more than Castiel could bear. 

Had this been a mistake? There was certainly much he could do in his heavenly form, more so than any mortal. But it had been too much of a liability to Acheron's safety, and as Castiel stood there, feeling warmth course through his blood, he understood just how wonderful these human sensations were. 

Acheron let out a soft whimper. Then, without warning, he bolted upright in bed, smothering a shout. He stared, wild eyed and covered in a layer of sweat, at the near-darkness of his room. Some kind of extra sense made him look round, directly at Castiel. 

Fear, rage and confusion passed across his handsome face in a matter of seconds. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself: he scrambled halfway across his bed, clutching his sheets to his body and half-rising into a sitting stance. 

Castiel held a hand out in supplication; this only served to make Acheron flinch as he backed even further away, clear off the bed and onto the floor. 

It felt as if Castiel's ribs had been pulled outwards. A coldness snaked up his body; his heart thundered in his chest. This was fear, he realized, but only a modicum of what Acheron must have felt at the appearance of a strange man in his chamber. 

"Wait," Castiel said. "Acheron, please."

Acheron froze at the use of his name. Then, standing up straight, all fear forgotten he said, "I suppose they told you I wouldn't put up a fight?"

Castiel blinked, not knowing what Acheron was talking about. 

"Have any _asterosum_ on you? Going to paralyze me while you fuck me? Or do you want me to struggle a little?"

He thought that Castiel was there to use him.

Castiel felt as if a snake had been hatched in his stomach, the uncomfortable sensation of his guts being turned upside down making his threat tighten. Forcing himself to focus Castiel let the span of his wangs show. The silvery moonlight spilling through Acheron's window cast the shadow of them in a dusky silhouette on the wall behind him. 

Acheron dropped his sheets in surprise.

"Castiel?" He took several steps forward. "What happened to you?"

"I took a vessel,” Castiel said. “You told me that people would be suspicious of you if I acted in my angelic state. I didn't wish to bring anymore scrutiny your way." Castiel smiled as he spoke, needing Acheron to understand that he'd done this for him—to make his life somewhat more bearable. 

Bitterness clouded Acheron's eyes. He looked Castiel's new body up and down, almost warily. Then he crossed the floor, his steps slow and almost methodical.

"Acheron?" Castiel could barely think from how fast his heart was beating. Acheron didn't reply as he closed the distance between them. He seized Castiel by the wrist and led his hand towards the heat of his groin.

Blazing warmth enveloped Castiel's face. His chest tightened uncomfortably and a whirlwind of dizzying thoughts turned his mind to ruin. Acheron manipulated Castiel's fingers, forcing him to fondle the weight of his sac as he looked him dead in the eyes. Something bitter and acrid rose in Castiel's throat. A surge of angelic power tore through him. He wrenched his hand out of Acheron's grasp and staggered against the opposite wall, breathing heavenly and trying to gain control over the need to get sick. 

Acheron snapped out of some kind of trance. He stepped closer to Castiel, contrite and ashamed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry, Castiel. I only thought that--

"What is it going to take," Castiel said thickly, "to make you understand that I _don't_ want _that_ from you? Even in a human body I don't feel the way any of the others do."

"That's all I've ever known," Acheron reminded him. He sank to the edge of his bed. "The effect I have on other people's bodies--

"If my physicality is immune, then it’s nothing to do with their bodies," Castiel said, surprised by his own verbosity. "Whatever there is about you pulls at the fabric of someone's soul. There's nothing in me that wants to take your body or your dignity from you. I only hoped you'd have believed me the last time I told you."

"You weren't human then," Acheron remarked softly. 

The anger fled from Castiel like a flock of startled doves. Sighing, he sat on the mattress next to Acheron. Acheron glanced at him and smiled almost disbelievingly. 

"You really did this for me?"

"Yes." He wanted to add, _"I also turned my back on everything I've ever known for you,"_ but despised the petulance of the idea. He didn't want Acheron feeling guilty. 

"How did you get into the palace like this?"

"I still have the powers of an angel, Acheron. Mostly, at least. That was why I was standing over you. I wanted to give you my grace to ease your spirit, but realized I had to touch you to do so."

"You...wanted to ask me first?" Acheron looked almost nonplussed at the very idea of his consent being important to anyone. 

"Yes," Castiel said, rather defensively. “I did.”

Acheron sighed. He looked at his hands, and then at Castiel. "I'm sorry I forced you to touch me," he said. "I suppose that's an introduction on how it feels to be me."

"I've seen and felt enough of you to know," Castiel muttered. 

"From now on if you want to pass your grace along to give me pleasant dreams, you don't have to wait for me to wake up." He spoke haltingly, as if granting permission against his better judgement.

Castiel felt the doubt in Acheron's words. He let out a huff and stared at the ground. 

Acheron's eyes widened. "Did you just scowl at me?"

"No," Castiel said automatically. 

"So now you're lying to me."

"Stretching the facts of the matter," Castiel amended. 

"That sounds like a lie to me."

Desperate to change the subject, Castiel asked, "What were you dreaming about?"

Acheron's face hardened. Castiel fully expected him to avoid answering the question, but after only a moment's hesitation, he said, "I was drowning. Something was pulling me deep under water and no matter how hard I kicked and struggled and swam, I couldn't escape or draw air. And I heard their voices all around me, laughing and telling me that they were going to take me where I belonged; that nothing could save me, not even...not even you." 

"I'd like to see them try and make you do something you don't want to do," Castiel said, his anger singing the edge of Acheron's sheets. 

Acheron grinned. "After this--" he gestures at Castiel's new body, "I'd be pissing myself if I knew you'd go to any lengths to keep me safe." He paused. "Why do you want to keep me safe, Castiel? What's so special about me that I would get a guardian from a world I've never heard of?"

"Everything," Castiel replied quietly. 

Acheron sighed and then stretched out on his mattress. The pale glow of the moon made the white hand marks on his shoulders look almost luminous. 

"Being special doesn't mean I can afford to lose sleep," Acheron said. 

Castiel got off the bed and stood in the corner of the room. 

"What are you doing?" Acheron frowned at him.

"It's a better vantage point. If anyone comes through the door, I can see them and make them leave."

"My hero," Acheron said, not altogether insincerely. 

"Not a hero," Castiel said quietly. "Just an angel." Acheron chuckled, rolled over, and was soon asleep once more. 

Castiel soon found that the one drawback to his human form was that he was acutely aware of the passage of time. As an angel, matters of daylight and night's length meant little if not nothing to him. Now, concrete in the mortal world, he had to contend with how darkness stretched until it seemed almost maddening. 

He settled for watching Acheron slumber, listening to his breathing and the odd, grunting snore. He only showed signs of distress once or twice; in those instances, Castiel quietly left his shadowy corner, laid a hand on Acheron's bare back, and let a modicum of his angelic grace soothe Acheron back to sleep. 

Pale gray light tinged the darkness of the sky outside with the approaching dawn; still Castiel continued to keep vigil over Acheron. He felt that same tightness in his chest, only this time it was accompanied by a weight in his mind—a sadness so profound that it made him want to scream and shatter something.

How was it fair that someone as kind as Acheron had been abused for years without a shred of warmth given him? How was it fair that his own twin had suffered similar agonies—surely a thing that would have bonded them as brothers—and yet they seemed to exist in separate worlds? 

Where was the justice on this Earth? Where was the justice in his own Heaven?

Softly, Castiel padded across the floor and knelt down next to Acheron's bed. He gazed at Acheron's face, so still and peaceful in his sleep. His fingers curled around the edge of Acheron's sheets as he felt a determination boil within him like a geyser.

"I _will_ save you," he vowed. "Both of you." For, no matter what he had told himself before, Castiel couldn't just turn away from Styxx when he was in as much pain as Acheron. 

Larks began to sing in the laurel trees outside the palace window. A cool breeze slithered into Acheron's chamber; the day would be cold, despite the summer having only just turned from spring.  Castiel glared at the cold, treacherous gust; as if cowed by the angel's wrath, the wind died down almost at once, leaving nothing but the unseasonable chill in the air and the bite of the ocean. 

Still, Acheron slept. Castiel supposed that he'd exhausted himself at the seaside the previous day. Even as the palace began to buzz with life in the early morning, Acheron did not wake. Castiel was just beginning to wonder if Acheron would sleep the day through when his senses detected a tremor in the air. Someone was approaching from the corridor. 

Getting to his feet and backing into the sanctuary of his corner, Castiel turned himself invisible. The door to the chamber opened, and a familiar young woman stepped through. She'd grown since the memory Acheron had shown him—her body filling into curves and a regal poise. Her blonde hair was pinned in the same wealthy fashion as the other women Castiel had seen in the amphitheater. As she moved silently towards Acheron's bed, the pale purple gown she wore fluttered around her soft, feminine figure. 

Ryssa. Acheron and Styxx's sister. 

Despite the obvious warmth in her blue eyes, Castiel felt in instant dislike of the girl. The feeling shocked him entirely—Ryssa had, after all, done her utmost to help Acheron. Yet there was that unsettling desire that resonated from her soul, along with something that felt like disgust. 

It was as if she both wanted to help her brother, and felt a deep resentment of him. It made Castiel want to bat her across the room for the impunity of it. 

Ryssa knelt next to Acheron's bed, and smoothed his flaxen hair from his forehead. Acheron started, and his eyes fluttered open. The moon-white met Ryssa's sapphire blue for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make Ryssa's desire mount. 

Hastily, Acheron looked towards the ceiling. 

"You scared me," he said, trying and failing to be noncommittal. He glanced towards the corner, and his eyes widened when he saw Castiel. Castiel shook his head and put a finger to his lips, indicating that Ryssa was never to know of his presence. 

Ryssa smiled ruefully. "Please forgive me, Acheron." Her voice was breathy and earnest—a trifle too earnest, as if the idea of her having to shoulder any guilt over Acheron being upset was unbearable for her rather than what it would cause her brother. "I thought it would be nice to surprise you." 

"If it's the same surprise as your last visit, I can hardly hold my breath," Acheron said, speaking to the wall where Castiel stood. 

"Oh, don't be maudlin."

Acheron sighed. He held out his hand, pretending to feel the cool in the air. But he darted his eyes to Castiel—he wanted Castiel to take him by the hand. Frowning, Castiel stepped away from the wall and covered Acheron's palm with his own. He could feel Acheron's unease and sorrow—and as he did so, he also saw a memory: Acheron, tied to this bed, emaciated and pale. Ryssa, holding a silver knife to her face and speaking hotly, tears in her eyes, to a middle aged man. Castiel saw a beautiful young man, enveloped in sunlight with laurel leaves in his golden hair. 

Acheron dropped his hand. 

"I'm not maudlin," he said in the same falsely cheerful tone that made his facsimile of a smile seem so dreadful. "I'm only jealous. After all, once you become the mother of Apollo's child, nobody will have time for me. 

He offered the smallest of genuine smiles to the still-invisible Castiel; evidently Acheron didn't believe his words with his guardian angel ever-present. 

Ryssa seemed to take Acheron's smile as a sign of madness. She pressed a hand to his forehead, scarcely caring for how he flinched at her touch. "Have you been taking eycharitisi?" Her eyes traveled to the white imprints of Castiel's hands on Acheron's shoulders. "Acheron, where did you get those?!"

"Oh, last night while out of my mind on eycharitisi I went to visit the blacksmith. He was making a new pair of glaives and held me by the shoulders with them fresh from the smithy while fucking me in the ass."

"Acheron!" Both Ryssa and Castiel spoke in outrage at the same time. Castiel, angry and irritated at Acheron's blasé remake, sent a wave of hot air across the room. Ryssa's gowns fluttered in the force.  

"What was that?" She stared around, eyes wide.

"Zephyrus," Acheron said blithely, while casting an apologetic look Castiel's way. "Maybe the god of the wind wants to stake his claim before Apollo."

Ryssa pursed her lips. Seeming to defer to a middle ground, she changed the subject. "I've asked Father to let you out for the celebration. He agreed, provided that you were accompanied by a guard and had your eyes covered."

"How uncharacteristically kind of him.” 

Ryssa smiled slightly. "I may have threatened to get cold feet on my wedding night if he didn't let you."

"Thank you, Ryssa. But I don't need a guard. I'll keep to the shadows during the procession."

"There's a vantage point from the adjoining temple," Ryssa said, relieved that her brother's frame of mind had become less gloomy. "If you're worried about causing a scene you can watch from them."

"Yes, because I just invite all the trouble that comes my way," Acheron sighed.   

Ryssa looked dumbfounded. "Acheron, I didn't mean that...it's just that I'm trying to look out for you..."

"Don't worry about me. Really, Ryssa. I can take care of myself. 

Ryssa seemed torn. Once again she caught Acheron's eye; lust radiated from her like summer heat. Flustered, she got to her feet and hurried back out the door. Castiel watched her go, no longer feeling the same bitterness towards her; comprehension had dawned on him between the conversation he'd eavesdropped on and the images Acheron had shown him, not that that conclusion he’d come to offered any comfort. 

"She's sacrificing herself to this god? This, Apollo?" Castiel said in outrage. Acheron put a finger to his lips and nodded at the door. Ryssa's retreating footsteps continued down the corridor before fading into silence. Only the did Acheron get off his bed and answer as he dressed for the day. 

"She's not sacrificing her life. She's sacrificing her womb."

"What." Castiel spoke the word flatly. Acheron shrugged as it were a matter of little importance. Castiel felt his wings bristle in disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me that your parents have willingly stood by and let all three of your bodies serve as things to be bartered?!"

Acheron stilled as he pinned a fresh peplos to his shoulder. "Three of us? What are you talking about? Only Ryssa and I have..." His voice trailed away; Castiel instantly wished to fly somewhere far away, possibly dark and surrounded by ice. But he stood his ground. 

"Have you been talking with Styxx?" Acheron's voice was calm, but there was an edge of accusation to it. When Castiel didn't answer right away, Acheron appeared to put the pieces together for himself. 

"I can't believe this." He stormed towards the door before Castiel could even form any kind of response. "He takes everything I've never gotten, and now the one thing I have for myself and he's gone and sunk his spoiled rotten fingers into it."

"Acheron stop!" But it was too late. Acheron had already left the chamber. Castiel raced after him, attempting to phase through the wall. Not being a celestial entity anymore, he succeeded in only running into solid stone and bouncing flat onto his backside. 

Snarling at his own stupidity and sporting a very sore tailbone, Castiel teleported from Acheron's barren chamber to Styxx's grand bedroom. The young prince was already dressed in a tunic of dyed wool as blue as a midnight sky. He turned in surprise at Castiel's appearance, but that was nothing compared to when Acheron burst through his door a second later.

"What are you doing?" Styxx asked. Ignoring his brother, Acheron slammed the door and stormed towards him.

Styxx took notice of the handprints on Acheron’s shoulder and added, "Acheron, what happened to you?"

"Like it matters to you!" He stared incredulously at Styxx, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Castiel stood between them, not knowing what to do, his whole body vibrating with pent up energy.

Acheron pointed at Castiel, a futile action, given that Styxx didn't even know that the angelic visitor had taken human form. "Why do you have to take everything from me? He came to me, Styxx. Me! To help me through this miserable fuck of a life. What did you do? Did you hear him talking to me and decide to steal him away? You couldn't stand it, could you? That one thing was going right for me." His voice shook; Castiel felt as if a bolt from an arrow had lodged itself in his chest; Acheron was actually crying now, and he wanted to make him stop. "I've never done anything to you besides look like you. You've never had to do the things I've had to do. You sit up here and lord over everyone, get everyone kissing your royal ass and you can't let your pathetic tsoulus of a brother have something for himself!"

 The blood drained from Styxx's face. His whole body shook with suppressed rage. Castiel didn't know which of the brothers to be more concerned for at that moment—Acheron, in his fit of bottled up resentment, or Styxx, unjustly accused and on the precipice of lashing out. 

"You don't know a single fucking thing about me, Acheron," Styxx snarled. 

Acheron laughed hollowly. "Yes, you're a real puzzle for the philosophers. Spoiled son of the king who has but to snap his fingers to get what he wishes. Do you want to know how many times I've had a senator's cock down my throat with them wishing it was you? They called my Styxx more times than I could--

Styxx made to swing a punch at his brother.

Castiel reached his limit.

He grasped Styxx's fist in his hand, blocking the punch with all his angelic strength. Then, before either brother could draw breath, Castiel seized Acheron by the top of his shoulder. 

If they weren't going to see eye to eye, he would make them. 

He felt the power of emotion flow through each brother like the sucking undertow of a river, only one that flowed both ways. Acheron's memories and emotions hit Styxx full force; Styxx, meanwhile, saw and felt the full weight of everything his brother had suffered. As the conduit between them, Castiel was also bombarded with every memory and feeling.And as unendurable as it was, the onslaught helped him grasped the distinguishing truth that each brother had been so blind to when it came to the other: Acheron had been made to think himself worth nothing more than what his body could give since before he was even supposed to understand the act of sex. Styxx, meanwhile, had never had a choice in the matter. He'd been used and tortured against his consent, and had come to think of himself as nothing. Both brothers had been similarly wounded by the world around them; it was only the weapons that had cut them that had been different.

When he could stand the feeling no longer, Castiel let his hands fall. Drained to the point of exhaustion, he staggered backwards. The back of his knees hit Styxx's ornate bed, and he toppled to the cold, hard ground, breathing heavily and tasting blood on his tongue.

Acheron and Styxx faced on another—both blonde, tall, strong and handsome. Both with a pain so deep beneath the veneer of their physical bodies that it had brought an angel to his knees. 

Comprehension, awful and heavy, etched every line of their near identical faces.

Tears fell silently from Acheron's ghostly eyes, and Styxx wasn't faring any better. He took a step towards his brother, but hesitated when Acheron flinched away like a frightened child. 

"No." Styxx kept his hand outstretched, stricken at his brother’s fear of him. "Please…Acheron... _adelfos_..."

Acheron choked on a sob at the endearment for 'brother'. He stared at the ceiling, tears sliding down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I thought--"

Castiel made himself invisible a split second before Styxx embraced his brother. It was a moment too private, too personal, for Castiel to bear looking at, let alone remain present for.

But like every speck of comfort that ever fell into their lives, the moment of understanding and love was broken too soon. 

Fists pounded on Styxx's solid bedroom door. The brothers broke apart, both facing the door with eyes wide. 

"Prince Styxx," a man's voice shouted, "what's going on in there? The servants heard shouting." 

Acheron wiped his eyes on the back of his hands. 

"Shit," Styxx hissed. "What are we going to do?" 

"Hit me in the face," Acheron said quickly. 

Styxx blanched. "Acheron, I'm not going to hit you in the face!"

"They're going to punish me anyway!" Acheron whispered. "At least make it look like your mad whore of a brother attacked you." 

"You're not a whore!"

"Styxx, just do it!"

Styxx closed his eyes and then punched Acheron; the blow connected with Acheron's eye. Acheron grunted and staggered backwards, clutching at his head. Castiel cried out in rage and concern; a moment later, the door burst open and several guards poured through. 

Styxx didn’t seem capable of coherent speech. He looked horrified at turning his brother over after the bond between them had been forged anew. 

The captain seized Acheron by his hair and Acheron let out a yelp of pain.

“Fucking tsoulus,” the man snarled, shaking Acheron bodily. “I don’t care what the princess said, you should have been gutted the second they found you selling your ass to the senators.”

His exhaustion vanishing, Castiel gave himself over to the clutching claws of true wrath. The room, already dim from the gloomy day outside, darkened as the light of Styxx’s hearth fire went out. The captain released Acheron's hair; all the assembled guards froze. Castiel let all his ugly fury seep from him like a poisonous mist; he could hear sibilant whispers and mad laughter as he tapped into something beyond himself, something that, for all its insidiousness, felt almost good to him.

The guards looked to their captain for orders; the captain looked to Styxx, who had regained something of his composure.

"Your highness?" The captain glanced around the room, unsure of what to do. 

"Most be a sign from the gods," Styxx said simply. "Leave us. I can handle him."

The guards filed out. Just as the captain made to depart, he kicked Acheron in the ribs. Acheron doubled over, gasping. Styxx clenched his fists but did not lash out at the captain. 

Only when the room was empty did Castiel let his ire die down. He shimmered into visibility once more as Styxx knelt down and gently helped a still winded Acheron to his feet. 

"Are you alright?" Styxx asked.

"Fine," Acheron said through gritted teeth. "I've taken worse hits. Looks as though you have as well." He looked towards the bed and said, "What the hell was that, Castiel,"

Styxx stared in amazement. "Wait, _that's_ Castiel?"

"It's a long story," Acheron said as Styxx helped him sit on the edge of the bed. "Seriously, Castiel...what _was_ that?"

"They made me angry," Castiel replied evenly. 

"If that’s what happens when you’re angry,” Styxx said, “then remind me to stay on your good side.”

With the moment having been stolen, both brothers sat next to each other on the edge of the bed in awkward silence. Again, Castiel felt as if he were intruding on something. For a long moment, the awkward stillness grew to an almost painful length. 

Then Acheron gently touched the back of his brother's wrist. Styxx smiled softly, meeting Acheron's gaze.

"I'm sorry," Acheron said again. 

"So am I, _adelfos_. So am I."

"Do you think there's anything to be done for Ryssa?"

"Is there anything to be done for her brothers?" Styxx glanced at Castiel. "Unless of course your new paramour here chooses to intervene on our behalf."

"He's _not_ my paramour," Acheron said, turning faintly pink. The rush of blood to his face and bruised eye made him wince. Castiel strode forward, and held his hand over Acheron's injury. White light glowed beneath his fingers and a moment later, the bruise disappeared.

Styxx arched his brows. "That's impressive. Gods, he really is here to save you."

"I'm here to save _both_ of you," Castiel said. 

"I doubt that you'll want to get up close and personal with any of the places on me that have been injured," Styxx said. Castiel averted his gaze, remembering the abuse he’d witnessed in Styxx’s soul.

"Don't embarrass him," Acheron said defensively. 

"Rising to the aid of your lover?"

"He is _not_ my lover!"

"Whore."

"Lout." 

Styxx and Acheron's eyes met. Then both of their faces split into identical grins, and Acheron playfully gave his brother's shoulder a shove. 

"Seriously though..." Styxx looked Castiel up and down. "Do you think you can stop Apollo from claiming our sister?"

"I don't know if he even should," Acheron said quietly. "She offered herself. If we interfere we'll bring the wrath of the gods down on us."

Castiel, still hovering to the side, balled his hands fists. "Let any of them try," he said darkly, "and _I_ will bring the wrath of Heaven down on _them_."

Styxx grinned tiredly. "With that kind of self-belief, we'll turn Olympus to dust, I've no doubt." He sighed in defeat. "Ryssa wants this. It scares her, but she knows what it is that she's doing."

"So what can we do?" Acheron asked.

"I think," Castiel said quietly, "that your brother is trying to say there's nothing we _can_ do."

Styxx sighed, and then stared at the silk canopy of his bed. "There never is anything that can be done what it comes to us, Acheron." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has got to be the most self-indulgent piece of fan fiction I've ever written. By that I mean, it's the one instance where I've just eschewed my habit of trying to avoid typical cliches and just had a ton of fun. This chapter was no exception. 
> 
> A word about Styxx: I read up to the point in his book where Dionysus and Apollo set their sights on him and after that I just couldn't even. There was too much rape. But I did truly feel a lot of sympathy for him, and so I've decided to give him more to do in this story. 
> 
> Also, brownie points if anyone notices the parallel between Styxx and Acheron, and Sam and Dean. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn’t the first time in Sam Winchester’s life that he found himself hurtling down a dark, dingy alley in hot pursuit of an unknown enemy. It was, however, one of the very few times that he was being chased by something _else_ while also chasing his initial target.

 _This is bad_ , he thought. _Turbo bad_.

If it wasn’t the possible demon now leaping over a six foot tall pile of freight pallets, it was the growling, barking wolf only a few hundred yards behind Sam—a wolf that, Sam was quite sure, had been a man mere moments before. The air was rife with the smell of the brute’s fur, and Sam's own sweat.

“I’m gaining on him, Sammy!”

And then there was Dean, doing a champ’s work at trying to gain ground on both of the bloodthirsty monsters from his vantage point on the roofs of the close-together buildings above.

There were several things amiss about this situation as far as Sam was concerned, not least of which was the fact that not only did the werewolf not look anything like the wolves he and his brother had seen or that it was in wolf form outside of the peak of the lunar cycle. For starters, Sam and Dean chanting Latin at it when they’d first cornered the massive prick near Jackson Square hadn’t momentarily stymied the demon. Add to that a Castiel who’d been absent for the better part of eight hours, and Sam was about ready to chalk this hunt up to a bust.

But the demon could bleed, which was a plus, and Sam had the distinct impression that the werewolf slobbering at his heels was less trying to bite his head off, as it was pissed that Sam had gotten the jump on its intended prey—that of the blonde, eerily beautiful demon now clawing his way over an old, high, wooden fence.

“God…fucking…damn it…” Sam panted. “I’m too…old…for this…shit…” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a Beretta. This wouldn’t do dick to kill the demon, but if Sam could just slow it down…

The shot blasted through the alleyway; Sam noticed Dean skid to a halt at the end of the row of rooftops. The bullet whizzed through the air and grazed the demon’s leather covered body. It snarled, and blood splattered against the walls as it lost its balance and fell to the ground with a painful thud.

“Yahtzee,” Sam said. He skidded to a halt, whirled around and aimed the gun at the werewolf.

Only the werewolf had already leaped a clear eight feet in the air, over Sam’s head and across the fence.

Sam gawked, unable to believe his eyes. He heard the wolf’s paws connect with the ground. There was a shout of pain and the next second the air was filled with curses and grunts as the werewolf ostensibly went for the demon’s throat.

“Are you seeing this?” Sam shouted as he tried to get purchase on the coarse fence. Dean didn’t reply—Sam supposed his brother was now shimmying down a drainpipe on the main drag. Straining his neck, Sam looked over the top of the fence.

The wolf had disappeared. The demon was in the middle of a brutal fight of fists, fireballs and silver blades with…

Fang—Aimee’s boyfriend from the bar called Sanctuary.

Sam gaped, completely unable to believe his eyes. What in the fuck was going on around New Orleans?

The demon sent an array of silver blades through the air. With speed and agility too fast for Sam to fully process, Fang dodged the projectiles and slashed at the demon with an immense, curved blade that he produced from nowhere. The demon laughed, and then leaped off the back of the nearest wall and lunged into the shadows. Fang stood tense, and a moment later sprawled to the dust as the demon launched itself from pitch darkness and smashed his face into the ground.

“No!” Sam hoisted himself over the fence and fell to the pavement. Fang and the demon both stared round. Hastily, Sam retrieved a phial of holy water from his pocket. Grinning at the demon, he threw the phial straight at the bastard’s face. The glass exploded; the water splattered the demon from blonde hair to his chinny-chin-chin.

Nothing happened.

The demon wiped at his face, and gave Sam a bland look.

“What was that?”

“Uh…holy water?”

Fang began to stir; the demon pressed his boot against the man’s face, grinding it against the ground so hard that Sam was afraid the werewolf-whatever’s eyes would pop out of his skull.

“And here I was running from you,” the demon said drolly to Sam. “Goodness, I thought you were a Hunter and here I am with my foot in my mouth.”

“I _am_ a Hunter,” Sam snarled. “And so is he.”

The demon turned to find Dean, or rather, the receiving end of the butt of Dean’s shotgun. It connected with the bastard’s face; he jolted, his body staggering sideways; Sam was relieved that Fang was able to stagger to his feet, clutching at his bloody nose.

“Ready?” Dean said.

Sam nodded.

In unison, both brothers broke into the Latin of the exorcism rite that had never failed them before. The demon screamed and slid against the brick wall, clutching at his face and writhing.

“The agony!” He screamed. “Ah, the pain! Make it stop! The holy power! Oh, it burns with the fire of a thousand suns!”

At first Sam was too flushed with the success of having cornered the bastard to notice that his screams were too dramatic. It was only when the demon started to laugh that he realized he was only playing around.

Sam faltered. Dean glanced at him, eyes wide. The next second, both brothers were flattened against the walls by an unseen force. Held their and unable to move, Sam watched the demon draw closer, only realizing at that moment that its eyes were not the telltale, liquid black.

The bullet that had grazed it had taken a portion of its shirt off. Sam could see a strange tattoo on the demon’s chest—a yellow sun with a black dragon in the center.

“What—are—you?” Sam ground out.

“I am the light of the Lyre,” the demon said as it stalked towards Sam. It conjured a blade from thin air, long and lethal and razor shape. “I am the kept of the Goddess of Destruction. And you are going to make a very tasty meal. Right after I finish sucking the katagaria Hellchaser dry.”

The demon’s mouth widened, revealing sharp fangs.

Church bells rang from down the street. The demon paused, and glanced at the sky. Pale gray light was already tinging what of the sky was visible beneath the clouds that had rolled in from the Mississippi.

“Shit,” the demon spat. Whatever pressure had kept Sam, Dean and Fang held tight relinquished them. The air behind the demon shimmered like disturbed water. “You’re lucky the cock’s crowing, or I’d be gorging myself full. Farewell gentlemen. See you tonight.” Without another word, the demon slipped into the rent in reality, and vanished without a trace.

Dean hurried to Sam’s side, but Sam shook his head, staring with his jaw on the ground at the spot the demon had vanished.

He’d never seen anything like that before—never known a demon to not be weak to the power of holy water or exorcism.

“Thanks.” Fang was on his feet, wiping his bloody face on his hand. He glared at Sam and Dean. “If you two heroes hadn’t gotten in the way, I’d have had that piece of shit in the dust by now.”

Dean took an angry step towards Fang, but Sam held him back. Fang dwarfed even Sam by a good two inches. Getting into a fight would be total suicide.

“What was that?” Sam asked.

But Fang shook his head. “Piece of advice for you two: mind your own fucking business. And stay out of Sanctuary while you’re at it.” With that, Fang shifted back into a wolf, and hurried down the alley from whence he’d come.

His guts leaden, Sam looked up at the sky overhead.

“Going to be a long morning,” he sighed.

“Even longer if Cas doesn’t get his feathery backside down here,” Dean added. “You don’t think—

“I don’t, Dean. I don’t know what I think anymore.” And that, quite frankly, was terrifying.

* * *

 

After the quiet solitude of Katoteros, returning to Earth was enough to induce an immediate headache. Almost at once, Castiel felt a barrage of prayers wallop him—all from Sam and Dean and all in various degrees of impatience and distress. Part of him, a part mostly tied to the one that had decided to remain in the shower with Acheron for almost forty-five minutes after their first time making love, was annoyed. But he knew it wasn't fair; Sam and Dean were his friends; they had no idea of Cas's history, or the world so intricately tied yet separate from the one they'd prowled in all their lives.

The wind was crisp and the air cool; it had rained some time between his leaving Sanctuary and being brought to Katoteros. The chill air made Castiel shiver and he wished he'd remembered to bring his trench coat. His clothes, having been all but shredded, were still on the floor of Acheron’s bedroom. Before leaving, Cas had seized Ash's discarded _Nazareth_ t-shirt and tugged it over his body. It was so big on him that it nearly reached his thighs; the lingering trace of Acheron's natural scent on the material, however, made Cas more than capable of bearing the brunt of the cold.

He stood outside a motel near the interstate leaving New Orleans. It was rundown, likely only a two-star building, and bore all the signs of being a possible hideout for a motorcycle gang.

The place was typical fare for Sam and Dean, at least when they couldn’t return to the bunker.

Again, Castiel wished nothing more than to be back in Acheron’s arms, but he knew that he had to, at the very least, check in on his friends.

Castiel followed Sam and Dean's signature to a room near the end of the suite row. Then, knowing that they'd have likely protected the doors and windows, he teleported inside.

Both brothers were stooped over a scuffed desk in the middle of the suite. Sam, as ever, had a mountain of books and his laptop open. Dean was cleaning their cache of weapons, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

As he stood behind Sam, Castiel suddenly realized the great similarities between the Winchester brothers and Acheron and his brother, Styxx. In mortal life, Acheron had been impetuous and passionate, much like Dean. Sam, studious and calculating, would have been the spitting image of Styxx had his hair been the right shade.

And of course, the pain was almost identical. Castiel's lips parted in surprise of this latest revelation; he wondered if he'd somehow subconsciously gravitated towards Sam and Dean because of these similarities.

Dean looked up from the Marlin Model 60 shotgun he was cleaning. He jumped from the chair like it had burnt him.

"Where the fuck have you been, huh?"

Sam glowered at his brother, evidently thinking he was the one being spoken to. In answer, Dean pointed at Castiel, and Sam looked round. Although his surprise and relief weren't as evident, Castiel saw his shoulders relax visibly.

"We were worried sick about you, dude," Sam said.

"I was out," Castiel said distractedly. He could see one of the web pages that Sam had open, and the image of a black dragon over a yellow sun nearly drove him to forget that the Winchesters had every right to be pissed. Glancing at the notebook near Sam’s wrist, Castiel noticed words such as “katagaria,” “Hellchaser,” and the phrase “I am the light of the Lyre.”

He swallowed down his dread, and asked, as if it was at all necessary, "What's going on?"

"I could ask you the same question." Dean stared at the over-large _Nazareth_ t-shirt Castiel wore. "Cas, we've been tearing New Orleans apart trying to find you for the last fourteen hours, in addition to getting our asses handed to us."

Time passed differently in Katoteros, but Castiel hadn't thought that he'd been with Acheron that long.

"I'm sorry," he said, meeting Dean's gaze for a brief second. Finding Dean's eyes a bit too probing, Castiel looked back down at Sam's pile of research. "What are we after?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "What are we—Cas, man, we're after the same dickstain demon that brought us to the side of the Mason-Dixon Line in the first place. Remember? Mutilations and blood draining and all that shit? The one who wiped the floor with us last night when you were out shopping for band t-shirts?"

Castiel blinked. He had, in the rush of being reunited with Acheron, genuinely forgotten what had taken him and the boys away from Kansas: days before they'd gotten word of a string of brutal killings in New Orleans and had set out to scope out the situation. Castiel hadn't even thought of Dark Hunters, Daimons and Apollites at the time because it had been centuries since he'd let himself touch on the subject even with himself. Now, staring at the mark of the Spathi, he felt his pulse quicken.

"Cas?" Sam glanced up at him quizzically. "You're spacing out. What happened?"

"And who was the big T-Rex making eyes are you last night, huh?" Dean stood against the kitchen counter, arms across his chest. He still had the calculating look in his eyes; Castiel knew just how on the ball Dean Winchester could be when he was really determined to get to the bottom of something.

"Big T-Rex?" Cas repeated, too consumed with putting the pieces of their recent hunt together.

Sam snorted. "Giant dude in leather with the Shirley Manson dye job? He was kind of hard to miss...well, height not withstanding since everyone at that bar was about six-four at the least."

"Oh. He was just…an old acquaintance."

"Thank God for that," Sam muttered, rubbing his eyes with the flats of his palms. "We thought he might have jumped you."

It was a sign of how much time Castiel had spent with Sam and Dean that his immediate thought in response was, " _Oh, he jumped me alright_." Before he could stop it, the smallest giggle escaped his lips. Sam's eyes widened and he reached for a phial of holy water near Dean's weapon stock.

Regaining his composure, Castiel said, "Sam, don't bother. I'm not possessed, I'm not hurt. It's just been a very unusual night.

"In what way?"

"Ancient history," Castiel replied curtly. Then, desperate to rid himself of the feeling of being under a bright spotlight, he changed the subject. "Where did you see this mark?"

Sam cast Dean, still silent and staring by the kitchen counter, a questioning look, as if wondering whether letting the subject of Cas's disappearance drop was wise. Getting no answer from his brother, Sam grimaced and turned back to his laptop.

"We chased the slippery fuck," Sam said. "After we figured you weren't going to pick up the answering machine, we started doing some serious snooping. Found the bastard near Tulane, and talk about huge, weirdly beautiful people. Had eyes like we'd never seen before, but he was rocking some serious magic. We tried everything—holy water, exorcism rites. No dice. Dean got him down in the catacombs and we had the bastard cornered when he just up and disappeared. No smoke, nothing. The only thing we got off him was this tattoo on his shoulder, but certain people—" he jerked his thumb at Dean—"don't think that little cup of information is worth drinking from.

"It is," Castiel breathed. "Trust me." He couldn't believe that he'd been so blind as to think that Sam and Dean would never cross paths with the world of the Dark Hunters. They'd already barely escaped from Artemis. Being on the trail of a Spathi would introduce them to things they only thought they understood.

Sam stared at Castiel with a strange, paternal sternness. "Cas...do you know what this thing is?"

"It's a demon. Just not any kind of demon you've ever dealt with before. Not of the Hell that you know; it comes from a Hell all unto itself. One that predates the Pit." It was no use; if Sam and Dean truly had run afoul of one of Apollymi's continually reincarnated Apollite playthings, then Castiel would have to tell them the truth. Spathi did not take kindly to being hunted down, even by the Hellchasers who kept them at heel.

"How much do you know?" He asked, beginning to pace as a million thoughts raced through his mind.

"Not a lot," Sam said. "I did get in touch with a professor of ancient studies." Sam opened another window on his laptop and pointed. "Professor Julian Alexander. He hasn't got back to me yet, but I've got Charlie hacking into his info just in case."

Castiel shot a sparing glance at the screen and promptly collided with a dining room chair at sight of the faculty photo.

No.

Spathi and Acheron were one thing, but this?

"Julian of Macedon," Castiel said weakly. There was no mistaking it; although Julian had cut his hair to something more modern, his face was still as stunningly handsome as ever, as to be expected for the son of Aphrodite.

Sam stared at Castiel as if worried for his sanity. "What the fuck is going on?" He said. "How do you know all these people?"

Castiel took a breath. He had no choice. Sam and Dean had a right to know, although doing so would mean revealing more of himself than he was entirely comfortable with.

Before he could utter so much as a peep, however, Dean yelled a jubilant, "Aha!"

Sam and Castiel both jumped. It had been so long since Dean had spoken that they'd almost forgotten his presence. 

Pointing an accusatory finger at Cas and grinning from ear to ear, Dean said, "You big pimp, you got laid didn't you! That's where you were last night!"

Castiel felt his face go red as a brick. Sam stared at his brother as if he could scarcely believe Dean thought now, of all times, as being appropriate for pointing fingers.

Oblivious to the effect his announcement had created, Dean said, "It's so fucking obvious! The different clothes, the carefully combed up hair! The distraction! You totally got some pussy last night, Cas!"

Sam chucked one of the road maps on the table his brother's way. Dean dodged the projectile, still beaming. He strode to Castiel and clapped him jocularly on the shoulder. "What's her name, Cas? Was she hot? Did she come?"

"Jesus, Dean," Sam groaned, crossing the room to grab a much-needed cup of coffee. "Do you really think—

"I totally do! I'm proud of my man here! He lost his V-card, dude! And judging from the Goliath-sized band shirt, he probably saved her from some troll of a boyfriend with his heavenly sword, if you get my drift." He smirked. "C'mon, Cas. If you're not going to spill about this baby powder demon, you should at least tell us the gory details. The gorier the better. Start with her name if you don't wanna jump to the _Penthouse_ shit right away."

He was talking in typical Dean Winchester bravado. He didn't know that being with Acheron was so much more than sex. Hell, he didn't even know Acheron period. But still, his words stung Castiel like a million wasps, the reduction of Acheron and what they’d shared the previous night to something so base causing his knuckles to crack. He wanted to be angry, but knew it was pointless. Dean didn’t know, after all.

So, pointedly avoiding anyone's gaze, Cas said, " _His_ name is Acheron."

Sam paused with his coffee mug at his lips. The swagger slid from Dean like melting snow. For a long while there was no sound aside from the TV playing in the suite next door and the rush of traffic on the interstate outside.

Then Dean said, as if Castiel had just revealed himself as the kidnapper of the Lindberg baby, "You're a cocksucker?"

Castiel wasn't sure how it was managed; perhaps Sam had retained additional powers from his soulless days; or maybe he really was just thought furious at his brother. Whatever the case, the younger Winchester’s fingers curled around the coffee mug so hard that it shattered in his grasp, sending painted ceramic, chalky dust and creamy coffee all over the linoleum. Sam stared at Dean as if he’d just been pinched in very sensitive area.

Once more heat rose in Castiel's face, this time out of anger. Blood pounded in his ears, and he heard everything as if from under an immense body of water.

"What the ever-loving hell, man?" Dean took a step away from Castiel, looking thoroughly betrayed. "Is that why you keep invading my personal bubble? Are you coming onto me?"

" _Dean_ ," Sam said, his teeth gritted tightly as if he'd swallowed pure grapefruit juice.

But Dean didn't appear to be paying attention, either to Sam or to Castiel.

"Cas, what gives, huh? I didn't think angels would swing that way. What about Leviticus and all that shit? And who even is this guy? Some fairy from San Francisco or? Did you top? I mean, you seem like you would top to me. Then again, you could be a bottom for all I--

" _Dean, would you shut the fuck up, already_!" Sam roared.

Dean blinked, and the blood drained from his face. Castiel hadn't moved an inch or breathed a word during the entirety of his diatribe. He'd wanted to, mostly to close his fingers around Dean's throat for the first time ever, but a cold, prickly numbness had crept into his skin.

Finally, unable to stand standing around mutely while his anger, hurt and betrayal gnawed at him like some subterranean monster, Cas strode across the room and out the door.

"Cas--" Dean called out, but the slam of the door drowned out whatever words he wanted to say.

"Too late," Sam seethed, wiping the coffee from his sleeve. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck is your problem, huh?"

Dean looked truly lost, as if even he hadn’t known what it was that had gotten into him. "Come on, Sammy. I was just surprised."

"That wasn't surprised," Sam spat, "that was insensitive." He strode towards the door after Castiel and added, "way to go, _John_."

"Hey, that's not fair.”

"Save it."

"I really don't have a problem with--

"Really?" Sam stared at Dean, eyes blazing. He pointed out the window where the Impala was parked near the walkway in front of the motel. "So you're telling me you wouldn't scrub that piece of shit from top bottom if you found out that I used to jerk off with my roommate during my first two years at Stanford?"

Dean hesitated for a moment. "But you...you didn't right?"

Sam spared his brother one last look of deepest disdain before he slammed the door behind him as he headed into the cold morning.

Castiel heard the sound of pursuit but didn't turn around as he walked for a grove of trees across the street from the motel. He knew all he had to do was teleport if he truly wished for privacy, but he was too seething to think coherently at all.

"Hey, come on Cas, slow down!" Sam jogged to catch up, but Castiel kept moving. "Look, don't pay attention to anything Dean says, okay? He's an asshole; it's common knowledge around most parts of America and southern Canada."

Cas's nostrils flared. He came to a stop, bracing his hands on a length of fencing on the side of the road that separated the highway from a small swamp.

"It's our dad," Sam went on, relieved that Castiel had stopped his furious retreat. "Our old man was the supreme ruler of homophobic pricks. It rubbed off on Dean a little. Okay, well maybe a lot…”

"I don't understand it," Cas said eventually.

"What, Dad? Well, from what Bobby told me, Dad was kind of a closet case in Vietnam. Y'know, getting a handy from your platoon and then coming home and acting all indignant--

"No, not that," Castiel said. "All of it.  Why people are the way they are about love."

"Because a lot of people are ignorant," Sam said. "Religious propaganda doesn't help either. But if you love this guy—Acheron you said his name was, yeah? If you love him then that's all that matters. I don't know what it feels like to be in love with a guy, but I do know what it feels like to love someone so much that it tears you up and makes you feel like you could kill the world when they get hurt."

Castiel didn't need to ask; Sam had had many brushes with love over the years. They'd all ended in tragedy. Yet after everything, he still tried, still believed in it for himself and for everyone else.

"You really are an incredible man, Sam Winchester," Castiel said quietly.

Sam chuckled. "I try." He hung his arms over the fence, watching the bulrushes and Spanish moss sway in the cool breeze. "So Acheron...how do you know him?"

"Like I said, ancient history."

"We've got lots of time. And from the looks of things back there, you've got a lot of explaining to do."

Providence chose that moment to rear its head in the form of an immense upheaval of power—an immense, familiar upheaval of power that Castiel had only been parted from for the better part of three hours.

His smile formed before he even turned around. The second he saw Acheron, almost hanging from one of Simi’s slender, be-winged shoulders, all joy disappeared.

“Monkey Man!” Simi squeaked. Despite her petite frame, she didn’t look at all strained by supporting the much larger Acheron. “Akri told Simi to take him to see Miss Liza, but Simi thought she should find you first.”

Sam, following Castiel, stared with wide eyes, first at Simi, and then at Acheron. Seeming to decide that the appearance of a young goth woman with immense feathery wings was less important than Acheron’s weakened form, he said, “What’s wrong with him?”

“It was the heifer bitch,” Simi wailed, tears filling her red eyes. “She hurt my akri again!”

Castiel knelt down, sliding his arms underneath Acheron’s and pulling him close. Ash was conscious—it would take a great deal more than anything Artemis could dish out to make him pass out—but it was plain as daylight that he was still in tremendous pain; the second Cas’s fingers made contact with Acheron’s back, it wasn’t difficult to understand why.

Sam, hovering to the side, let out a sharp breath. “Cas,” he said, his voice deadly calm, “his back…”

“I know.” Castiel could feel the raw, bloodied flesh on Acheron’s bare skin.

“It’s like…hamburger.” Sam sounded simultaneously horrified and heartbroken. "Fuck, who did this to him?"

Ash lifted his head; his hair was blonde again, and curtained around his head. He gave Castiel a wan smile. “Never…negotiate…with goddesses.”

“You son of bitch,” Castiel said softly. He held Acheron as gently as he could, feeling the raw mince on the flesh of back—feeling the blood seep across his fingers. “Remind me again why you won’t let Simi eat her.”

Simi snorted and, to a still stunned Sam, said, “Hmph. No use getting that information out of akri. He still thinks the bitch goddess isn’t as evil as she appears. But Simi says that if it looks like a heifer and talks like a heifer than it probably is a heifer.”

Cas tried to help Ash stand, but doing so required him to find purchase on either Acheron’s shoulders or his back. His skin had been so badly flogged that even the slightest movement seemed to cause him pain. Castiel rather thought he felt something like bone near Ash’s shoulder blades; his stomach lurched and he felt something hot and prickly stinging at his eyes.

He couldn’t fall to pieces, not right now. He’d seen Acheron through worse…just not in a very, very long time.

“We’ve gotta get him back to the suite before someone sees.” Sam knelt down, examining Acheron’s skin. He peered around, trying to gauge Acheron’s expression. Something like recognition showed on Sam’s face, and he leaned in for closer look.

Ash turned his head to the side.

“Sam, do _not_ look at his eyes,” Castiel said quickly. “It’ll be better for all of us that way. Come on, Ash. You’re going to have to take us back to Katoteros.”

“Ash?” Comprehension dawned on Sam’s face. “Wait a second…Acheron? Ash? This is—

“I don’t have time for this Sam,” Castiel ground out. “Artemis can find him on Earth. At least in Katoteros I can heal him without worrying about her getting her nickers in a twist.”

“ _Artemis_?”

“Ooh, look akri! The long-haired sexy man looks like a gulper eel right now!” Simi stared at Sam curiously. “Don’t worry—Monkey Man can heal akri better than anyone.”

“Stay here with them, Simi,” Castiel said. “Just in case. They pissed off a Spathi last night and they don’t know how to deal with them.”

Simi clapped her hands. “Spathi? Simi hasn’t eaten one of those since Caligula!” She held out a hand to Sam. “Introductions, long haired sexy gulper eel! I’m Simi Parthenopaeus!”

Sam hesitated for only a moment, not that Cas could blame him. As far as information overloads went, this was poised to induce a full-scale meltdown in even the most experienced of minds. At length, Sam took Simi’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

“Sam Winchester. Pleased to—

Simi let out a gasp of delight and backed away. “Sam Winchester? _The_ Sam Winchester? Oh! Simi can’t believe this!” She dug in her coffin-shaped purse and, to Castiel’s amazement and mild derision, pulled out a copy of one of Chuck Shurley’s _Supernatural_ novels.

Sam gaped for the umpteenth time that morning.

“Simi is such a fan! She’s read all of the books about you and the Dean! Of course, Simi knew it had to be real, at least a little bit, because Monkey Man was a character, but she didn’t think…Akri,” she looked at Acheron, who managed a weak smile. “Look, akri! It’s Sam Winchester!”

“Play nicely, Simi,” Ash breathed. “We’ll be back soon.”

“Oh not soon! Simi has so many questions she wants to ask Sam Winchester! And she can show him all the fan fiction she’s written!”

“And I have so many questions for you,” Sam replied. He gave Cas a lock-jawed smile, and Cas nodded. As far as information went, Simi was a veritable font of it.

“Ask her whatever you want. Just don’t expect it to be easy to follow.”

The breeze picked up; Acheron hissed as cold air stung at the bloody mess of his back.

“Can you make it?” Cas asked him; he’d managed to get a grip on Acheron’s hip, but wasn’t so sure that he had enough strength to take them home.

“I can,” Ash said. “Just…don’t let go of me, okay?”

“I never will,” Castiel said. He gave Sam and Simi one last nod, and then, a split second later, both he and Acheron vanished.

Sam stood still for a long moment. The creature called Simi was still bouncing on the balls of her feet, her eyes wide with delight at the sight of him. He felt completely stupid for the first time in a very long time, and Sam had learned from his days at university that when one felt stupid, the best thing to do was defer to a more intelligent source.

Ignoring her for the time being, he reached into his pocket, dug out his cell phone, and dialed Charlie's number.

After five rings, Charlie answered with a brisk, "Who do you love?"  
  
"If you can get to the _Proud Mary Motel_ on the I-10 in the next few hours, I'll probably propose marriage."

"Yuck," Charlie said. Sam could already hear her getting up and moving about her hideout. "What's going on, Sam?"  
  
Sam glanced at Simi. "I've got a few things here that you'd die to understand."  
  
"Ooh, I'm there. And it just so happens that I've got a piece of information for you, as well. You know that Professor Alexander you wanted me to look up?"  
  
Sam sighed. "What about him?"

"He's not entirely legit."  
  
"It just so happens I've got a few not entirely legit things here that bear looking into."  
  
"Show you mine if you show me yours?"  
  
"Ew. And totally."  
  
"Be there in three hours. Live long and prosper." And with that, Charlie hung up. Sam tucked his phone into his pocket, and then noticed Simi watching him. He started, still not used to the strange appearance of the...whatever in the world it was that she was.  
  
"Was that Charlie?"  
  
Sam glanced at the book in Simi's hand. "Uh...yeah. She's on her way over. I figured we could have something to drink and, y'know, introduce you to my brother."  
  
Simi grinned, showing off razor sharp teeth that instantly put Sam on edge. "Charlie doesn't have to drive. Simi can go collect her." And, before Sam could dissaude Simi of the notion, the winged young woman disappeared in a ball of fire.  
  
Birds chirped in the trees; a large eighteen-wheeler rumbled by. Sam stared at the spot where Simi had been only moments before, wondering if, perhaps, the last eighteen hours had all been some very strange dream. When a the irritation of several mosquitoes feasting on the blood of his arm proved all too real, Sam heaved his shoulders and looked towards the _Proud Mary's_ bar and diner.   
  
"I'm too sober for this shit," he muttered to himself as he crossed the interstate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't too long or confusing! 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Ever since Lucifer had taken him there, Castiel had felt a longing to return to the great wide plains where he’d seen the people celebrating around the great bonfire. Swaths of green grass and tall, full trees with their strange needle-like leaves were sights unlike any to be seen in Didymos, and it was all Castiel could do to not explore the land more thoroughly. 

He’d settled for taking Styxx and Acheron through the woods, away from prying eyes. They’d stumbled upon a river, broad and winding and silvery-blue as the scales of the fish swimming below the surface. It was just placid enough for both brothers to swim in without risk of succumbing to the current. 

Castiel sat on a rock at the river's edge, knees up to his chest, and watching as Acheron and Styxx splashed and swam, both free and happy as the great eagles flying overhead. Their clothes hung from the branches of a willow tree, and both were completely unashamed of their nudity. Castiel had thought it rather odd at first, given how notoriously they'd both been abused. But then he'd understood, with a small ache in his chest, that neither Acheron nor Styxx had any compunctions of their bodies being things to be kept private. They'd both had their agency in that regard stripped away—what was a moment like this to them compared to other instances when they'd been stripped down? This was veritable modesty. 

It had been several days since the brothers had reconciled. Since then, Styxx had found excuses to stop by Acheron's room whenever Castiel hadn't been able to spirit them away from the palace. Mostly the two talked of what _might_ have been—treading the territory of what had happened to them induced nothing but a heavy sense of despair.

The one piece of the past they did touch upon was from when they were both small children. They had slept side-by-side many nights, from what Castiel understood. It had been the last time they'd shared the bond of fraternal love, and both spoke of it with a wistful longing. 

Yes. A day such as this, far away from Didymos, was what they needed and deserved.

Acheron pulled himself ashore, ran to the outcropping near where Castiel sat and then jumped back into the water with a jubilant shout, his legs tucked close to his body. He broke the surface of the water with an immense splash that inundated Castiel from head to toe. Acheron surfaced, his wet hair half covering his face; he laughed, shaking his hair out like a dog, and for once his laughter wasn't weighed down with the pain of memory. The sound was loud, genuine and boisterous, echoing around the small inlet like a crack of thunder.

A ray of sunlight filtering through the trees fell over Acheron, making his wet skin gleam, and his hair look like liquid gold.

Something shifted inside Castiel, a strange sort of unfurling sensation, like the spreading of warm wings. It was as if his eyes saw everything before him differently—the river, the sunlight, the trees were all made more beautiful and magnificent to him by the fact that Acheron was among them. A fierce heat coursed within his body; his ears filled with Acheron's laughter—a desire to hear that laugh, to be the cause of it, seized Castiel’s mind with such intensity that it left him momentarily dizzy. It was the most exquisite emotion he'd realized thus far...and also the most frightening. 

Castiel froze, even as Styxx waded towards the shore. This couldn't be desire—he wouldn't let it be desire. Yet even as Styxx, for all intents and purposes physcially similar to his brother, climbed up the rock and stood next to him, equally as blonde, beautiful, nude and wet, Castiel found that he couldn't stop glancing at Acheron, floating on his back in the waters below.

"Castiel, you're as good as any gargoyle I've ever seen," Styxx said. "Pry your ass from the rocks and join us! The water's glorious. Cleaner than anything near Didymos, that’s for certain."

"I don't think so," Castiel said, purposefully avoiding looking at Acheron, and failing. "Water is something I have yet to experience in my human body. I may drown." He remembered the sensation of falling into the ocean after Lucifer had opened Heaven’s gate—it wasn’t something he was keen on repeating.

"You won't drown!" Acheron called as he followed Styxx onto the rock. Castiel stared determinedly at Acheron's shoulder. "I can teach you how to swim!"

"I really don't think this is--

"Please." Acheron's bottom lip quivered. His eyes went bright and appeared to somehow larger and more innocent. He looked like an overgrown, silver-eyed kitten. 

"How are you doing that?" Castiel demanded, even as he got to his feet. "That doesn’t look natural."

"I'll tell you if you join me in the river." 

Castiel sighed, shrugging his blue cloak from around his shoulders. "I don't know how to swim."

"Acheron will show you,” Styxx said as he flopped onto the sand. “Won't you, _adelfos_?"

"Gladly."

Castiel fumbled with the sleeves of his tunic. He didn't understand why he was so hesitant, given that both Styxx and Acheron were naked now and had been several times around him before. He'd never known shame before, and yet now he wasn't keen on being bared to the brothers.

"Come on, Castiel," Styxx said. "We're not going to laugh. I'm sure you're hung like a fig tree."

Castiel almost stumbled over his own tunic as he lifted it over his shoulders. Styxx let out a bark of laughter. Against the hesitation and heat blistering his face, Castiel stripped his tunic off and let it fall to the rocks. Fists clenched at his sides, he stared at the riverbank, feeling as if every creature, bird and insect in the forest were staring at him. 

"There," Styxx said. "Not so difficult."

Acheron's big hand closed around Castiel's shoulder; Castiel felt heat pool in his belly. A strange jerking sensation made him acutely aware of a part of his human anatomy that he'd never before given any thought to. Fortunately, neither Acheron nor Styxx seemed to notice. 

"Come on," Acheron said, his fingers trailing down Castiel's bare arm and leaving scorch trails behind. "I'll help you. Don't worry." Castiel met his eyes, and felt as if something had kicked him in the guts. His breath stilled in his chest for a fraction of a second as Acheron smiled kindly. How had he never noticed the true beauty of Acheron's smile before?

Slowly, he let Acheron take him by the hand and lead him down to the river. 

"Are you going to join us, your highness?" 

Styxx shook his head and flopped onto the grass. "I haven't the strength. I'm just going to lie here until the sun dries my balls off."

Acheron laughed again; Castiel felt his stomach do several backwards somersaults. He desperately wanted to slip from Acheron's grasp, terrified and disgusted with what it was that he was feeling in his brain and body. 

But it felt too wonderful, too exquisite for him to turn away from; and for all Castiel knew, this was simply his reaction to experiencing the open air and the river...not Acheron's joy or his nearness or his touch...

When Castiel's feet squished over the sand near the water's edge, he gasped. 

Acheron stilled at once. "What's wrong?"

"It's...so soft." Castiel squished the wet sand between his toes, savoring the thick, cooling feel of it. He smiled, and then shivered as the water lapped over his bare feet. "Acheron, are you sure—

"Don't worry." Acheron squeezed Castiel's hand. "The current isn't all that strong, and I'll hold you up. Come on, Castiel…swim with me." 

His limbs feeling like tree sap, Castiel let Acheron walk him into the water. The cool water pricked at his skin; the gentle rush of it made him sway for a moment; his feet slipped on rocks covered in slimy smooth algae. He staggered, waist deep in water and automatically snaked his arm around Acheron's waist for support. 

"It's okay," Acheron murmured. "I've got you. Just go slowly until you get used to it." 

"I'm sorry." Castiel tried to slide his arm away, but Acheron held him fast. He pulled Castiel closer, walking him further into the river. Castiel's feet lost contact with the riverbed. He tightened his hold on Acheron, his free arm gripping the strength of his torso. Acheron's arm slid under Castiel's legs, the other holding him by his back, supporting him as the river rushed around them. 

Weightless, Castiel held onto Acheron for all he was worth. The water felt truly magnificent now that he was almost fully submerged in it. But it paled in comparison to the feel of Acheron's arms around him. He tried with all his might to think of anything aside from Acheron's body and nearness: he tried thinking about the names of all the angels in the hierarchy; tried to think of everything he knew that had happened to Acheron and his brother. Nothing helped. The physical sensations were too real, too present; and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that there was nothing more to this than Acheron trying to be kind-hearted.

At least, that was what he sincerely hoped. 

"How does it feel, Castiel?" Acheron's voice, low and resounding, was barely audible over the gurgling of the river.

"Wet."

Acheron laughed again, and Castiel mentally went through an alphabetical list of all the angels in Heaven in reverse order. 

"I learned how to do that when I was first in Atlantis," Acheron said, wading further into the river, still holding Castiel to him. "Earlier, with my eyes, I mean. When I was taken there, I wasn't sold as a tsoulus right away. They trained me to wait on my patrons first. Because of my eyes, they wanted me, of course. But with the teachings, I learned how to manipulate people. Nothing gets people to dote on you like a wide-eyed, innocent stare. At least not at first.”

"Is that what you did? Manipulate me?" Castiel felt his heart ache at the thought. 

Acheron inclined his head, ashamed of himself. They were standing motionless in the middle of the river, and Castiel wondered why Acheron hadn't tried to let him swim on his own. 

"Forgive me. Please. It's just...I wanted to do this with you. Water was one of the few things I enjoyed in Atlantis. They would let me walk free once a week, and I would always go to the tributaries and tide pools. It's very relaxing for me."

"I remember. That day at the ocean. I thought you'd never leave."

"And I wouldn't have known that, or this, without you. Not just the river, but this peace...and my brother." He looked back at the riverbank, where Styxx had fallen asleep curled on his side. "I never thought I'd understand him; or that I would feel so much love for him."

"I'm glad I could help." Again, that feeling spread from Castiel's chest to the tips of his toes. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the needling sensation. "Do the voices bother you here?"

Acheron's gaze hardened. "Yes. Not nearly as bad as at the ocean. But I can still hear them when I'm underwater. I used to think they were the only things I'd ever derive comfort from. But now?" He sighed, his eyes boring into Castiel's. "I thought I was doomed to die before feeling anything like this. Feeling this contentment and peace. And you gave it to me, Castiel. Gave me my brother. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you."

"You don't have to repay me," Castiel said at once. "And I won't rest until I've taken you both far from that place. Away from anyone who could hurt you."

Warmth filled Acheron's eyes. He held Castiel slightly closer; Castiel truly believed in that moment that Acheron would kiss him. The thought was so overwhelming in that it was what he wanted more than anything in that moment. He gasped and his grip on Acheron's body slackened. A split second later, and Castiel found himself completely submerged in the river. 

Some sort of primal human instinct made him keep his mouth closed against the water, but it was only by a concerted effort that he did so; as soon as he'd fallen under he heard the echoing, submarine voices, undulating with the eddy of the current, musical and haunting and terrible. 

" _He will come to us...he will die with us...you cannot save him...let him bleed for us..."_

Castiel's eyes widened, peeling to see through the murky water. Something ghostlike rose from the riverbed several feet away, disturbing the silt and the river weed. It took form as the upper body of a terribly beautiful woman; her silver-white hair swirled around her angular face in the force of the current. She smiled at Castiel, and then said, her voice ringing crystal clear: "They will not take him. I will take him...he is _mine_!" The apparition lunged forward, mouth wide, revealing a set of sharp fangs.

Castiel let out a gurgling scream and tried to kick away. Two strong arms seized him, and the next second he broke the surface of the water, pulled against Acheron's body once more. Those mesmerizing white eyes stared at him, and Castiel could hardly believe the fear he saw there. 

"Thanks the gods you’re alright,” Acheron breathed. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't go after you. I thought you'd gotten used to the water."

Castiel looked back down at the river, once more a murky steel blue.  "Where did she go?"

"Who?"

"The woman. I saw her underneath the water."

Acheron paused, Castiel still held in his arms; Castiel could see Styxx on the shore, standing upright as he watched his brother return. 

"I didn't see a woman go under," Acheron said cautiously. "Castiel, are you certain there was someone there?"

Castiel was quite sure, but he didn't want to frighten Acheron and risk ruining the tranquillity of the day. 

"I'm not sure," he said at last. "I suppose it was just shock..."

Acheron nodded and waded through the water. Even in the few moments of recovering from his shock, Castiel felt that gravitational pull towards Acheron return full-force. 

The instant Acheron's feet touched the sand Castiel hastily alighted from his arms. He rather thought he saw Acheron's shoulders sag in disappointment, and decided for himself that he'd imagined it.

"What happened?" Styxx was already dried and dressed. He held out Acheron's plain spun peplos.

"Castiel nearly drowned," Acheron said airily. 

"You really need to be more careful with him, _adelfos_. I doubt there's anyone like him in the entire universe."

"No," Acheron said quietly. "There really isn't." Again, Castiel designed to believe that Acheron's words were nothing more than a figment of an imagination that he'd never before possessed.

Castiel wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and sat down on the sand next to Acheron. His gaze fell on the river again, the glassy shimmer of it pulling him in like a hypnotic lullaby. Despite his inward assertions that he'd only imagined the woman, he knew she had been real, if not incorporeal. But who was she and what did she want? Why did she and the other voices desire to take Acheron away, but not Styxx?

And why was he, Castiel, now unable to help himself from casting sidelong looks in Acheron's direction? Had his taking of a vessel rendered him more human than he'd anticipated? The thought chilled him. He wouldn't allow himself to be like the rest—all those people whose souls and bodies turned feral with need to claim Acheron no matter what the cost. 

He would blind himself if need be. And when Acheron spoke, and Castiel felt himself grew suddenly calm at the sound of his voice, he decided that finding a way to deafen himself would also be advisable. 

"I wish we didn't have to leave here." Acheron had already changed into his peplos despite his being sopping wet. Styxx, standing near his brother's shoulder, sighed. 

"We don't have to," he said tentatively. "We're far away enough from anything remotely resembling our mother land. Nobody would find us here. And it really is perfectly quiet and solitary. We don't have to leave...do we Castiel?"

"I suppose not," Castiel said. They could settle here. It wasn't as though anyone in Didymos would miss them. Well, aside from...

"I'm not leaving Ryssa," Acheron said darkly. "Not until I know Apollo will keep her safe."

"You have too much faith in Apollo." Styxx's voice grew haunted; both Castiel and Acheron stared round at him. Styxx was watching the river, arms around himself, his eyes faraway, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "Apollo is a good assurance against any harm coming Ryssa's way, but that doesn't mean he will be kind to her. He's a god, remember."

"But if she's _offered_ ," Acheron countered, "then _he_ would be going back on a pact. He wouldn't hurt her in that instance, would he?"

Castiel saw the light of pain in Styxx's eyes brighten; felt the stabbing of his internal torment. Castiel let his wings unfurl, caressing the side of Styxx's face and sending waves of calm and comfort through him. 

Styxx shivered and the unexpected contact. He looked Castiel's way. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I suppose we will have to wait for Ryssa," Styxx went on after a moment. 

"What about Apollo?" said Castiel, not at all liking the feigned serenity in Styxx's voice; it reminded him too much of Acheron's pretended smiles. 

Styxx shrugged. "He's not as bad as the rest of them. Especially not Dionysus."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, but was prevented from voicing his grave misgivings by Acheron.

"The ceremony is only days away," he said. "We won't have to stay in Didymos very long. And with you, here, Castiel, I'm sure those days will pass in heavenly bliss."

The words " _I hope so_ ," were on the tip of Castiel's tongue, but he dared not speak them. Hope, he knew, was a language that was as foreign to Styxx and Acheron as the land they now stood upon; to strip them of what little of it they had left would be malice beyond cruelty. 

Again, Castiel thought of the woman he'd seen in the water. He recalled her words and the threat of the voices that rippled with the tide—that they’d take him away. 

Staring fiercely at the water’s surface, Castiel thought, " _I'd like to see you try_." 

Acheron got to his feet. He stretched, his muscles flexing. Castiel caught himself watching the way Acheron's body rippled with an underlying power. Quick as lightening, he looked to the sky, becoming very interested in the flight of a fat brown thrush as it flitted from tree to tree. 

Because the universe at large seemed to despise Castiel at that moment, Acheron walked over to him and put a hand in his shoulder once more. "Ready to take us back?"

"Of c-course."

"Did your voice just...crack?" Acheron grinned; behind him, Styxx likewise broke into an identical smirk.

Sighing in frustration, Castiel rose and pulled his tunic over his body, making sure to show as little of his skin as possible. When he faced the brothers, it was to find them both watching him with highly amused expressions.

"There's no need to be bashful," Acheron said. 

"Let him be whatever he wishes," said Styxx. "He's _your_ angel." 

When Acheron didn't deny this sudden ownership, Castiel felt a small part of his heart take flight heavenwards. But again, he checked the sudden emotion, stifling the flutter of his heart under something born of dread so palpably cold that it made his skin erupt in goose flesh. 

He could _not_ be feeling this pull. 

"Come," he said, holding his hands out. "You'll be missed if we don’t return to the palace soon."

"Your faith in others never ceases to astound me," Styxx said dryly. He and Acheron stepped forward and, with a touch of Castiel's hand, were back in the palace once more. 

"It could catch fire and I wouldn't piss on it to put it out," Styxx muttered as he looked around the desolation of Acheron's chamber. "Damn. The river already seems like a dream now."

"I don't see how it could," Castiel said. "I'm still not entirely dry. If it was a dream, it was a wet dream."

Acheron let out a whoop of laughter that he quickly passed of as a coughing fit. 

"As I told you earlier," Styxx said, "he's _your_ angel. You can explain such things to him. Castiel, thank you for the day in the sun. I'll never forget it."

Castiel had noticed how much more of a conversationalist Styxx was compared to his brother; he supposed it had a great deal to do with Styxx having been reared as a proper prince. Where Acheron was induced to speech by whatever was in his heart, Styxx had the gift of being able to sift through his words, meticulously crafting what he said with a combination of true feeling and silver tongue. 

Styxx put both hands on each of Acheron's shoulders and kissed the top of his brow. "Sleep well, _adelfos_." 

"Stay safe.”

Styxx left the room, and Castiel felt his absence only in that it increased Acheron's presence. 

He was spared the danger of awful possibility by the loud gurgling of Acheron's stomach. Acheron chuckled, patting his flat belly. 

"Too bad we didn't catch any of those fish," he said. "Styxx wanted to; he loves fishing."

"Are you in the mood for anything in particular? They're still preparing the feast for Ryssa's ceremony." Castiel inhaled deeply, the hot, sweet smell of oat-cakes and spiced fruit filling his lungs. 

"Anything," Acheron said. "But get something for yourself too. I haven't seen you eat since you arrived."

"I don't need to eat."

"But you _can_ eat."

"Would it make you happy to see me eat?"

"Yes."

Castiel nodded and disappeared. Several moments later, he returned to the room, a wooden tray of salty cheese, sweet dates and creamy yogurt balanced on his arm. 

"I took what I could," he said.

Acheron was sitting cross-legged on the floor. "It looks like a feast fit for a prince."

"You _are_ a prince." Castiel sat down across from Acheron. “It’s no fault of yours that your parents are horrible people.”

Acheron plucked one sticky date from the platter and popped it into his mouth. He licked the residue from his fingers, and Castiel started, quickly partaking of a piece of cheese to prevent himself from saying anything whatsoever.

"Paradise doesn't taste half as good as this," Acheron said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Swallowing down yet another date, he added, "How does human food taste, Castiel?"

Castiel had scooped a helping of yogurt into his mouth. "It...tastes," he said, surprised at the sensation on his tongue. "I've never tasted food before."

"You really are different from our gods. Food is everywhere in the tales. Ambrosia, Persephone and the pomegranate seeds; Tantalus chopping up his son and cooking him in a stew to serve to the Olympians."

Castiel paused in the process of chewing a sticky, sweet date. "He...cooked his own son?"

"That's what the story says, at least." 

"There's nothing like that in Heaven." For which Castiel was suddenly immensely thankful. "If your gods truly are that fickle, then why do you believe Ryssa will be safe with Apollo?"

"I can only hope. There's nothing I can do to change things. Ryssa made the choice and she's not ignorant about what's going to happen. As for Apollo...I don't know. Perhaps he's kind after all. You certainly are."

"Different tiers, Acheron," Castiel reminded him.

Acheron stared at the empty platter. He'd eaten most of the food, but didn't look at all content. 

"They're so distant," he said after a moment. "But in the tales they seem so approachable, like you can just reach out and touch them. Something that close—that present…it has to care. I tried to make myself believe that when I was in Atlantis—that the gods of my homeland weren’t helping me because I was too far away from them. But what kind of god would stand by and watch Styxx and I get hurt like that? Sometimes I really am terrified for Ryssa. But then I think about how wonderful you've been—even if you aren't from my world of gods and goddesses—and I wonder if perhaps there could be others like you..."

He sighed then, unaware of how raptly Castiel had been hanging onto his every word. "You better return that platter. The servants already think there's a thief among them as it is."

When Castiel returned from the kitchen, it was to find Acheron apparently asleep. Doing his utmost to look anywhere but at Acheron’s skin, Castiel took his customary place by the wall, prepared for another night’s vigil.

"Don’t you get bored, standing there all night long?"

Acheron wasn’t asleep after all.

"There's nowhere to sit,” Castiel said. “And I really don't mind that much. It's easier to keep—

"Watch in case somebody breaks in to fuck me in my sleep."

Castiel let out an annoyed huff. "Please, can you not talk like that?"

"Why? It’s truthful."

"But I don't enjoy thinking about it."

Acheron propped himself up on his elbows. Castiel stared at the ground, hating himself for noticing the differences between Acheron's eyes when he was in deep consideration and when he was in a spiral of self-loathing. In this case it was the former, not that Castiel wanted to be pleased with himself that he'd taken notice of the subtlety.

"I'm sorry," Acheron sighed. "I'm still not entirely used to the idea of you not treating me like a tsoulus."

"Would a tsoulus normally swim in the waters of a land he's never before been to?" 

"If his patron was wealthy and discerning, then yes." Acheron had assumed Castiel had been genuinely inquiring. Only when Castiel’s face fell did he seem to understand the insinuation in his answer. "Shit. I didn't mean it like that, Castiel. I'm grateful for what you've been doing for Styxx and I, really. Only I'm still..."

Castiel felt his guts twist into painful knots. "Still waiting for me to want something from you in return." At that moment he wanted to fling himself from the window and break every bone on the way down; he wanted something to rip him limb from limb for the weak humanity that had been clawing at him all day. He couldn't abide these frightening, thrilling new feelings for Acheron, not when it would make him like all the others. Not when he didn't even know what they meant. 

"It's not as though I want to think that way,” Acheron said. “But you're not the first who's given something to me only to spit in my face. I was once friends with a small boy and a blind woman. They didn't know what I was; she couldn't see my eyes and he was too young to feel anything from me. I thought they were my friends. But when I was discovered by the guards...the things that boy and his mother said to me still hurt, Castiel. I could take any physical pain and act of degradation but to have friendship and love ripped away when you think you’ve found it at long last?" Acheron shook his head. "I can't be too careful. I keep expecting all this to disappear. You; Styxx..."

"Acheron." Castiel's voice shook. He wanted nothing more than to join Acheron on the bed and soothe away those gnawing doubts of his. But how could he do that whole-heartedly when he himself seemed to be falling into the trap of human desire?

Was it even safe for him to be around Acheron?

"Castiel? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He looked out the window behind him, at the distant streets of Didymos. He could just see the temples on the highest ground in the middle of the city. Acheron had said that he wanted to know if other beings were like Castiel. Clearly Castiel couldn't keep himself from feeling whatever it was that was creeping into his heart and mind...perhaps other beings really could help Acheron without sinking into the trap of desire...

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to find out for yourself, what your gods are truly like."

Acheron's voice grew sleepy. "I might do just that. Although I really do agree with what Styxx said earlier—I doubt there really is anyone or anything like you in the entire universe." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that this is leading up to something. There is a reason why Castiel can do more things in the past than he can do in the present. It's just going to take a little while to get there. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

Blood seeped through Castiel's fingers as he helped Acheron kneel on the ground. It was so incongruous that he'd thought Katoteros a beautiful place only hours before. Now, with Acheron bleeding profusely all over the marble floor, the ancient walls and submarine sky were oppressive, as if Death lived hard by and was only waiting for the chance to strike. 

But Acheron couldn't die. He could just feel the same kind of pain he'd endured for thousands of years. Castiel's bloodied hands shook as he pictured Artemis whipping Acheron's skin from his back. 

The strength left him; Ash ground his teeth together. 

"Looks like the wash-up is going to have to wait," he rasped. "Blood all over the new rug. Simi's going to be pissed. She bought that in Milan."

"Never mind that," Cas said tensely. "Just be still and I'll heal you."

"Judging from the earthquake hands, I'm actually a little worried about that."

Castiel forced his hands to remain steady. He kept his eyes trained on Acheron's back, the bloody, pulpy ruin of it impressing upon him the necessity of how vital his keeping himself together was now. It was no easy feat; every breath caused more blood to drip from the wounds; Castiel's earlier assertion that he'd felt an exposed bone was horribly true—Artemis had stripped the skin just under Acheron's shoulder blade almost clean through in places. 

"Deep breaths," he said, although he wasn't sure if he was speaking to himself or Acheron. His hands hovered steady inches away from Acheron's skin; warm grace flowed from him, glowing in a white light as he slowly mended the length of Acheron's bare back. The deep gashes on Acheron's body began to seal, skin knitting over exposed muscle and bone. Acheron breathed evenly; Castiel couldn't imagine that the sensation of his skin stitching itself together was pleasant, even if it didn't hurt. 

Acheron's injuries were so severe that it took minutes for Castiel to heal him. By that time, he'd started to tremble again, this time with a fury like white lightning. Though he'd managed to mend Acheron's flesh, there was nothing he could do for the shining scarlet blood staining his back. 

Acheron got to his feet, flexing his shoulders. When he caught sight of how pale Castiel's face had become, he took him in his arms, kissing the top of his head. 

"Thank you, angel.”

Castiel's nostrils flared. "What the fuck did she think you did to deserve this kind of beating?"

Acheron grinned. "I've never heard you say that word before."

Snarling, Castiel slipped from Acheron's grasp and stormed around the room. "Fuck," he said once more. "Fuck, fuck, fucking motherfucking fuck!" His voice rose to an angry crescendo; his arm lashed through the air, connecting with a studio style lamp near the sofa; the fixture fell to the floor with a tinkling clatter. 

"Cas, I get that you're furious, but--

"I don't think you do. You have the power to bring that sadistic bitch to heel and yet you let her treat you like this!" Castiel's voice broke at the same time his spirit did. "She knows how noble you are, Acheron. She takes advantage of it just like she does everything else because that's all she knows how to do! She takes and she takes and she will never feel guilt over it because she's so determined to believe that she's a victim. God, she took Prometheus away from his wife and child and he didn't even remember who he was or what he'd done wrong! If she was going to go through this miraculous growth of character you keep having faith in, it would have happened now." He jabbed Acheron in the chest with a finger. "You're too fucking good for her and I want this to stop—I want her to stop!" 

Castiel's chest heaved; he was breathing like a winded bison, his whole body shaking. He fully expected Acheron to go to bat in defense of Artemis.  He'd done it for centuries, and Castiel sometimes thought this blind mitigation was a result of serious mental and emotional trauma...which only made him loathe Artemis even more. 

To his surprise, Acheron let out a defeated sigh. "You're right," he said. "I know you are. I know the evil in her. I just...hate thinking that there's no hope for anyone."

Castiel snorted, arms over his chest. "Sometimes there isn't any," he said, repeating something that he'd heard from Acheron's own mother thousands of years before. "Sometimes people just want to keep feeding off their own poisonous darkness."

Acheron smiled softly, then took Castiel by the wrist and walked him towards the bathroom. "Shower with me. I'll explain myself while I wash this shit off." 

Castiel narrowed his eyes, but followed nonetheless. "If you're using the chance to see you naked and wet again as a way of avoiding this, then it won't avail you."

"Since when have you known me to use my naked wetness as a distraction?"

"Since about four hours ago," Castiel muttered. 

The bathroom in Katoteros wasn't so much a bathroom as it was an ancient bathhouse that had been outfitted with modern conveniences. Black marble floors and walls had been smoothed to polished perfection; the middle of the room was nothing more than an immense hot spring where steam rose continuously. One square corner had been sectioned off with mullioned glass that held a state of the art shower system. The whole place smelled of sandalwood, which certainly explained how the scent always lingered on Acheron.

Castiel wasted no time in stripping off his clothes. Even though he'd been in here mere hours before, pleasuring Acheron every way he knew how and reviving pleasure in turn, Castiel wasn't in the mood for sex. And as powerfully beautiful as Acheron was when his clothes were likewise stripped off, the blood coating his back wasn't the kind of thing to elicit any sort of carnal longing. 

Stepping into the shower was like being hit with the world's most soothing rain; the silver shower head was affixed high to the stone ceiling, the better to cascade over Acheron's full height. The instant he stepped under it, Ash let out a contented sigh. Castiel grabbed a white cloth from the ring screwed into the stone and set about gently washing the congealed blood from Acheron's body. His hands threatened to shake again, and so he concentrated on the rush of the water to distract himself. 

"I told her," Acheron began, "that I wanted her to leave me alone for fourteen days. So that I could spend time with an old friend."

"Did you tell her it was me?"

"No."

"You should have. She'd have been terrified."

"And she would have also tried to find a way to keep us apart," Acheron said gently. Castiel sighed, hating that he'd forgotten the whole reason he'd left Acheron's side in the first place. 

"That was different," he said, ringing scarlet water from the bloodied cloth. "Back then...my powers were draining, Acheron. I'd been away from Heaven so long. I knew it was only a matter of time before I lost them completely the way all vesseled angels do. Artemis found out and I knew she would act..."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I knew the only way she'd ever let the subject drop was more servitude and humiliation from you." And clearly very little had changed. Castiel dropped the washcloth, looking at the fresh set of scars on Acheron's healed back. "Did what I gave you at least help? When I touched you before we, uh, last showered, I mean."

Acheron faced Castiel, a gentle smile on his face. Once more he took Cas in his arms and kissed him long but tenderly. "She can't take you away from me," he breathed after they broke apart. "Not now that I have you back."

Although his soul was moved, Castiel couldn't help but let the numerous doubts buried at the back of his mind take flight. Electing not to give voice to them, he said, "Come on, T-Rex. You need some rest."

"Will you-- 

"Yes, Acheron. I'll be with you." Castiel twined his fingers through Acheron's. "There isn't anywhere else I'd rather be." 

The bed sheets were a tangled mess, still stained with the evidence of their love. Cas looked away, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks. Naked, he folded the covers back and stood aside. 

Acheron arched an eyebrow but climbed onto the mattress with a grateful sigh of contentment. Castiel, making good on his earlier assertion, followed suit, resting with his back propped up by pillows. Acheron instantly rolled over, his head on Cas's chest, and Cas curled his arm around Acheron's body.

"I don't mean for these things happen," Ash began, but Cas shushed him with a finger to his lips.

"Don't think about that right now," he whispered. "I want you to tell me about things that make you happy, Ash. Nothing else." It was a technique he had found among the memories of Jimmy Novak, and one that he’d attempted to use on Dean with little to no success. But Dean wasn't like Acheron; both burned with a passion for living, but Acheron's heart wasn't as walled up with stone as Dean made his. 

Acheron was silent for a moment; his height made it so that he had to bend slightly in order to keep his head on the security of Castiel's chest while Cas massaged the skin of his shoulder and arm.

"You," he said softly after a moment. "Being with you again after all this time. Being with you like this."

"What else?" 

"Simi," Acheron went on. "She's been the one constant in all these centuries and she surprises me every day. Although--

"No, Acheron. I said happy, remember? Forget about the ifs and althoughs for just this moment." 

Acheron sighed heavily, as if procuring a happy memory with no strings attached was a task too great for even Hercules. Yet even as he went on, Castiel was pleased to hear his voice growing more and more tired. 

"I'm happy for the good times I did have. With you and with Styxx."

Thinking about Acheron's brother, Castiel wondered what in the universe had become of him. The last time he'd seen Styxx had been the day that Acheron had been murdered. He'd known that Styxx had to have come back to life, given that his life force was tied to his brother's; Castiel and Acheron had spent centuries afterwards scouring the world for Styxx, only to be bitterly disappointed. He was nowhere to be found. 

Putting the disturbing fear out of mind, Castiel murmured, "What else?" He could feel Acheron's heart slowing to a steady rhythm. He would be asleep soon, Artemis's torture having pushed him to his considerable limits.  

"My men," he said. "They're happy. They have lives now. People they love. That's all I want...for them…"

His voice trailed away. Cas did not let go, but held Acheron to his body for several moments, his heart breaking for him anew. Once he was quite certain that Acheron was fast asleep, Castiel slipped silently from the bed. The room was dark now, the aquamarine light of Katoterros's sky shining through the great, arched windows. Castiel found a pair of grey sweat pants in Acheron's chest of drawers—they were far too long for him, and so he rolled the hem up several times and quietly padded from the grand bedroom.

Wandering the halls of the ancient sunken kingdom would have been enough to drive most people to dread. Castiel had seen the bowels of Hell and survived a recent stint in Purgatory; very little frightened him on a cursory level anymore. Besides, Katoteros had once been like a home to him before he'd returned to Heaven—now, with his heart once more in the hands of the man it belonged it, the dark stone and marble corridors and chambers felt as familiar to him as his own name. 

He walked a long time, his mind racing and his spirit discontent. He'd experienced this intense, fiery desire for vengeance before: the first time had been when he'd lost Acheron, and it had resulted in global destruction. The second time had been when he'd turned his back in Heaven after being unable to bear the game they'd played with Sam and Dean. He'd reined in his emotions then, long experience having taught him when to stay his hand. The third and most recent time had been a painful slow burn—thousands of years of seeing humanity drive itself to destruction and at the same time being a pawn in the backwards Heavenly political game had eaten away at him until he'd sold out to an enemy and swallowed the souls of Purgatory whole. 

Castiel wasn't the emotionless stoic that he'd tried to pass himself off as when he'd first made acquaintance with Dean; his facade had been one he'd practiced for millennia—a way of keeping himself and his less than angelic drives in check so that he didn't wreak havoc on an uncaring world of turn his back in Heaven. 

"Fat load of good that's done me," Castiel muttered to himself as he passed by a set of tall, arched windows. Submarine light splashed long shadows in the otherwise dark hallway. It reminded him of that first fall, when he'd sunk to the heart of the Aegean Sea in amazed wonder. 

Cas glanced out the window at the swirling sky. Then he blinked, and a moment later, backed away as a figure took shape in the vast ocean outside. She filled the glass, her whole form fluid and ethereal like a shot of cream in coffee. Her silvery-white hair stirred around a face as beautiful as a winter storm. She looked much like she had that first time Cas had seen her in the waters of a river—the day he'd taken Styxx and Acheron to what had eventually turned out to be the American continent. 

"Castiel." Her voice was like a whisper of midnight wind, slightly chilling but so utterly evocative. "My sweet little angel of destruction."

Cas met the white eyes gaze of his once and former ally as steadily as he could. "Apollymi. I'm not yours. I never was."

The Goddess of Destruction only smiled all the wider, her image hovering against the glass. "But you _are_ his now. And, oh, you've made my Apostolos so wonderfully happy."

"Which means you're staying exactly where you are." Cas turned and began to walk; Apollymi followed, her ghostly image swaying and distorting at each window. 

"Oh I don't mind Kalosis so terribly much. It's a far cry from the Hell of your God. At least from what Lucifer used to tell me."

Castiel stilled, resenting that Apollymi had used the revelation to keep his attention. "How could you possibly know Lucifer?"

"We apocalyptic beings do enjoy our little tête-à-têtes, Castiel. Poor Lucy. He was ever so excited to get a taste of the destruction you wrought. All in the name of his Father of course. I would say it was a shame that I wasn't let out of the cage, but the price for such a thing..."

"Don't remind me."

Apollymi diminished in size until she nothing but a tall woman standing outside the window. "We want the same things, Castiel."

"We don't."

"Don’t play coy. You’ve been a very busy little angel. Trying to destroy the world again, and all."

Cas glared at Apollymi. "I tried to _cleanse_ it. I was gravely misinformed. It was a mistake."

"But we both want Apostolos to be happy."

Cas stared at his bare feet. He couldn't argue with Apollymi there. "I can't make him happy forever," he finally said. "Not with the sacrifices he chooses to make. Not with his blood bonded to that evil heifer bitch."

Apollymi laughed, a sound that put images of chaotic cyclones and sharp pellets of ice in Castiel's mind. 

"She can be killed. They all can."

"I'm _not_ bonding with you again. The world has been through enough lately." 

"Not me, Castiel. There are other ways of killing lowly tier beings like the Olympians. I've heard it said that a gun can kill anything."

The words stirred something in Castiel's memory, but he couldn't quite place them. 

"It doesn't matter," he said; his fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms as he thought about the cruel injustice of it all. "She's made him her leverage. Even if there was something that could kill her, he would grow ravenous without her blood; feral. That's the last thing I want." His voice shook, and he looked Apollymi in the eyes, remembering how much of a guiding force she had been to him even in their one and only physical encounter...how she'd been like a mother. "I'm so tired of this. I've gotten the blood of my loved ones on my hands so many times..." Dean, Sam, Charlie, Acheron and Styxx...it was more than he could take, and the memories plagued him constantly. "I can't do anything to make it stop, _matisera_."

In the grips of this helpless tide, Castiel didn't even care that he'd let the Atlantean endearment for "mother" slip. Apollymi, however, was moved by it, and Castiel's plight. Cas was reminded that, despite her ambitions and her track record, Apollymi was, first and foremost, just a mother who wanted to keep her precious son protected and happy. 

She floated closer to the glass, her project image reaching a hand out as if to touch him. 

"Oh, Castiel." She sounded truly heartbroken for him. Then, looking at him as if he were avoiding some sort of obvious truth, she said, "You're really aren't as much of an angel as you think you are."

"What?"

"Look at what you've done. Even before your God retooled the world and the rules that hold it together, you disobeyed and followed your own heart. You've crossed so many lines from the path of righteousness in favor of the path of humanity. You've invited destruction and rebellion. Not even Lucifer could lay claim to all of that. Maybe you should start thinking of yourself less as an angel and more as what you could be."

"But what is that?"

Apollymi smiled sadly. "Whatever you choose. You could be Acheron's protector, if it suited you. Just because he has all this power doesn't mean he's safe, as I'm sure you're well aware."

Could he be? He'd failed at being guardian angel to Sam and Dean. What if there was a way to truly stand by Acheron's side—to be what he had been all those centuries before when his only thought had been for the happiness of Ash and his brother. 

Styxx...

"Apollymi," Cas said, "what happened to Acheron's brother? He's been searching for centuries and nothing has ever turned up. Not even in my Hell or Heaven."

Apollymi's face became clouded. "How should I know? He was never mine."

But Castiel had seen the shift in her gaze, and heard the evasive guilt in her voice. "What did you do to him?"

Apollymi shook her head. Her ethereal form began to fade. "Protect him, Castiel. Protect my son. It's enough that you love him, yes, but if you truly want to keep Earth free of my wrath again, you have to do more." And with that, she disappeared, leaving Castiel In the darkened corridor, alone with his thoughts raging like maelstrom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm not in enough emotional pain, I bought Styxx's book yesterday. I need it because I'm already incubating the sequel to this fic. 
> 
> Let me know what you think so far!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene of rape, as well as the aftermath. If you find such a thing triggering in any way, please read at your own discretion.

Castiel felt the energy of Didymos's population like a front of hot air on the day of Ryssa's binding ceremony. Thousands of people gathered along the streets from the palace to the temple of Apollo, all of them cheering and tossing white flower petals at the royal processional.

"I wish she hadn't asked him to escort her." Styxx, standing beside Castiel on the high wall of one of the many temples clustering the central hub of Didymos, watched as Ryssa alighted from her golden palanquin. Dressed in resplendent white with painted golden laurel leaves twining through her blonde tresses, she truly looked the part of a god's paramor...or a virgin sacrifice.

Castiel watched silently as Ryssa took the hand of a tall young man with a dark cowl covering his face. His stomach felt like iron, and he prayed that the wind would behave itself this time. Against all due and proper caution to the contrary, Acheron had caved in to Ryssa's request that he escort her up the temple stairs to the marble doorways. Castiel didn't know whether Acheron's agreement made him noble or plainly besotted with affection for his sister; all he knew was the dread he'd first tasted since that day in the river.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to be in close physical proximity to Acheron since. His voice, the scent of his skin, the warmth radiating from his body—everything about him sent Castiel's mind into a fit of stormy thoughts. He hated himself, being so weak in this human vessel, but took it as a good omen that he had no desire to overstep his bounds.

"If anything happens to him," Castiel began, watching as Acheron helped Ryssa to the top of the long marble stairs.

"Father's going to have him whipped for this. I'd bet my life on it." Pain creased Styxx's features for a moment. "I tried to tell him not to, but he wouldn't listen to me! All because of Ryssa. He thinks she's some innocent maiden off to face the deadly enemy of sex. But she knows what to expect...even if it is with Apollo."

He spoke the name bitterly, and once again Castiel wondered what it was about the god that had set Styxx so against him. Yet he wasn't impertinent enough to ask. 

"I'm not going to let anything happen," Castiel vowed for what seemed the millionth time that week.

Styxx's humourless laugh was all but lost beneath the blasting of trumpets and pounding ceremonial drums. "You're going to get old before your time if you keep tripping over yourself just to make us happy, Castiel."

"I can't age."

"It was a figure of speech."

Together they watched as the immense doors to Apollo's temple slowly ground open. Castiel couldn't see directly into the inner sanctum; but he did see a bright white light, so blinding that he was surprised Ryssa and the cowled Acheron weren't burning to cinders. Castiel glanced at the masses near the temple; none of them seemed dazed or blinded; nor did Styxx for that matter.

It wasn't really light, he realized—It was power. This god, this Apollo, was physically within the temple, and his power was radiating outwards as light like the sun.

Ryssa hesitated for just a moment. Then her hand slipped from Acheron's and she crossed the threshold, head held high in acceptance of her fate. Castiel saw Acheron tense, as if prepared to run after her; Styxx likewise seemed ready to fly down the wall where they stood, but in readiness to sweep Acheron out of harm’s way.

The temple doors closed with an emphatic boom that reverberated all around the plaza. The crowd screamed and cheered, and Acheron quickly ducked into the shadows between the temple of Apollo and the holy building it abutted. 

Castiel glanced at Styxx. "Will you be alright here if I collect your brother?"

Styxx looked around in mock astonishment. "Will I be safe on the ramparts of the temple plaza? I don't know. The sun is just so bright and there are so many witnesses out today."

"So you want me to stay?"

Styxx gave Castiel a droll stare. "That was sarcasm. It's saying something in opposition to what you mean."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"To be a smart ass." Styxx waved a hand. "Hurry. Fast as Acheron may be, the whole of Didymos is out today. If the King doesn't find him, someone is bound to."

"And you?"

"Back to the palace, I suppose. Not for much longer, I hope. If Ryssa does return in one piece, then I'd like to rid myself of this place as soon as possible."

Castiel nodded, and then disappeared from sight. A moment later, he stepped from behind the shadows cast by the many immense columns surrounding Apollo's temple, expecting to come face to face with Acheron.

To his surprise, he saw that Acheron was several feet off, standing in the middle of the stairs that led to the temple next to Apollo's. He was speaking to a stockily built, gray haired man in a fine chiton of dyed purple.

Castiel almost called out in alarm. What did Acheron think he was doing, conversing with strangers when he wasn't even supposed to be out in public? A wave of anger seared through Castiel, and he stormed from the shadowy alley. How could Acheron be so careless, after what had nearly happened to him at the amphitheater?

The gray haired man pointed to the temple and said something. Acheron nodded and walked off, away from the stranger and from Castiel.

Castiel hailed him before he could think better of it.

"Wait!"

Acheron stilled, almost at the top of the steps. He looked back at Castiel and gave a small, reassuring smile. The gray haired man hadn't moved an inch; he was watching Castiel, evidently surprised to see a stranger.

"I'll only be a moment," Acheron called out. "I want to see if I can find another sympathetic listener." His grin widened; Castiel felt his legs turn to water. If anything happened to Acheron in that temple, not only would it be Castiel's fault for not reigning him in, but also because he had made the suggestion that Acheron see if his own gods would listen to his plight.

Acheron turned and walked away. Castiel was so suddenly, inexplicably fearful that he nearly teleported to the top of the temple steps to stop him. But with the gray haired man watching, such a thing would have raised further questions and ended in disaster.

So he could only stand there, helpless as a crippled dove, as Acheron walked freely into the temple. Castiel felt an uncomfortable separation from his own body, as if he were observing the scene from a vast distance. His mind numb, he turned to walk away, feet almost tripping over themselves. He walked down alleys and bystreets, wondering how stupid he could have been to suggest something so reckless to Acheron.

Supposing he really did find a god who could offer him the same help, if not better? An impartial god, familiar with these lands and ways and beings. One who wouldn't feel such a shameful need to see Acheron smile and hear him laugh and be so close to him. Castiel certainly hadn't made good on his promise to never feel any desire for Acheron. Maybe a god of his own land was precisely what he needed to be truly happy?

A cloud fell over Castiel as he wandered aimlessly, forgetting that he had somewhere he needed to be—forgetting that Styxx was likely waiting for him at the palace, readying to leave once and for all.

Castiel paused as he passed through a walled garden. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. There was a power nearby, an immense power. He recognized this power, knew it from his time in Heaven and his brief day or so on Earth in his angelic form. He stared around; the square was deserted of anyone physical or otherwise. A moment later, he heard footsteps, and he whirled around as the powerful presence overwhelmed him, making him stagger backwards and knock over a pottery case.

The gray haired man who'd spoken to Acheron stepped under the sandstone archway into the garden. Spying Castiel, the man cocked his head to the side and said, “Castiel. What need have you to be afraid of me? I'm your brother, in case you've forgotten."

Castiel got a grip on himself. He righted himself, facing this most unexpected of visitors as the sauntered towards the fountain in the center of the garden as if he'd lived here his entire life.

"Michael," he said, offering deference to the archangel warily. He still hadn't forgotten that his brother had threatened to drag him back to Heaven against his will. "Why are you here? And in the body of a human?"

"You think you're the only one who ever took a vessel?" Michael smirked. "We archangels have to know all about the world our Father created. I must say that I'm surprised and a little disappointed in you for not having learned to cloak your angelic powers. It made it so easy to find you."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. Michael was circling him slowly, and it made him feel even more like a caged animal. Still, he wasn't about to back down, no matter how idle on edge he felt.

"Why were you talking with Acheron?"

Michael shrugged. "I was merely helping the boy along. He asked me whose temple was on the hill, and I told him that there would be someone waiting within to answer his questions."

"And that was enough to bring you down from Heaven and take a vessel?"

"In some ways, yes. After all, he was good enough to make you decided to forsake your home."

"I'm not forsaking anything, Michael. And nothing you can say will change my mind."

Michael sighed and sank to the edge of the fountain. For a moment, he looked almost hurt—but then the typical confidence returned, looking on the well-to-do mortal vessel as right as if he'd been made to hold the captain of the Heavenly host.

"You're missed in Heaven."

"I doubt that."

"Lucifer misses you."

"He said he would always be watching over me." Castiel spoke with a sudden heat, feeling warmed by the knowledge. "If he wants to visit me, he can do so anytime."

"He seems to think that your time is better spent among the humans, although admittedly, he's quite begrudging of it."

Castiel's nostrils flared. "What do you want? You didn't disobey the Father just to come here and watch the wind blow."

"I had hoped to persuade you to return."

"Last time we met, you seemed more keen on forcing me."

"I'm nothing if not a swift learner. Come back, Castiel. Your absence has grown discord among us. Many are questioning the Father and it's not good. Besides, what is this mortal coil—what is that man—but finite and fleeting?"

"I'd rather stay and offer comfort for the short years they have than leave them without any hope."

Michael smirked. Castiel felt a great desire to hit his brother, but thought better of it.

"Pretty words, brother. But you're not the only thing to derive comfort from. Especially in these lands where their gods meddle and interfere."

At the same time that the hurt of Michael’s words hit Castiel like a punch to the gut, he became aware of the acute silence in the garden. The festivities from the temple plaza were far behind, the sounds buffered by the stone walls. But it wasn't just the lack of discernible celebratory noises that chilled him to the marrow—it was the lack of Acheron's soul. Castiel had lived with the screaming of it for so long that the sheer absence had gone almost unnoticed in his distraction. Now, search through himself and the sounds around as he might, he could find no trace of it.

Without a moment's hesitation he turned on his heel and ran from the garden square. Behind him, he heard Michael call, almost mockingly, "Whatever is the matter, dear brother?" But Castiel was too stricken with the poisonous shock of his fear for Acheron's safety to even pay attention.

He ran, blinded by a panic that sunk filthy, jagged claws into his heart. The plaza was still bursting with people laughing and feasting and celebrating the sale of Ryssa's maidenhead to a god. Castiel could find no trace of Acheron's soul—no feel of that bruised, battered, suffering soul among these ignorant revelers.

Castiel cursed, and the force of his fury sent a crack through the ground outside the temple nearest him. Remembering the light of Apollo's power, Castiel concentrated against his dread and frustration. He discerned the energy of the buildings round—not even the temple of Apollo burned with that strange, powerful but still lesser aura. The god had evidently spirited Ryssa away to his own home; whatever god frequented the temple that Acheron had entered was likewise absent, but Castiel couldn't tell whether or not that was a good sign.

What he could feel was another godlike presence in a temple a little ways to the west—it was lower down in the plaza, hewn from darker stone as if it was meant to be hidden from prying eyes. The power resonated from within the temple—along with another presence, one human and in the throes of abject suffering, one that was so familiar that it caused Castiel to abandon all thought of finding Acheron and teleport directly from the hill to the belly of the temple.

Lust and excess seeped from every column and carved statue. The interior was wide, high-ceilinged and dim, with the low lights of purple flamed torches being the only things to see by. Castiel could smell the hedonism, taste it on his tongue like a vapor. The power here was so intense that it all but spoke to him, lascivious and careless. But it was nothing compared to the pitiful cries of a soul smothered by the god's presence.

Styxx's soul.

Castiel moved through the shadowy space, fear coiling around his limbs. The main chamber of the temple was devoted to an array of carved slabs of stone outfitted with plush pillows and blankets—like a harem's den. At the opposite end was a lush indoor garden teeming with grapevines as far as the eye could see, growing like a fungus beneath the stone effigy of a naked man with flowing hair.

Two men, both naked and panting, were on the long, smooth altar in front of the grapevines. One was pinned on his hands and knees, blonde hair held in a tight grip by the nude man behind him. Styxx was not crying out verbally, though the cries issued by his soul were devastating. As the man behind him continues to thrust, he smirked at Styxx, the slight violet aura he emitted growing brighter. He craned Styxx's neck backwards so far that it looked in danger of snapping. He whispered something in his ear that made Styxx bite his lip in sheer hatred and humiliation.

Castiel stood, immobile and horrified. Styxx wasn't crying or fighting back or giving any indication of protest; he simply lay in quiet acceptance of his fate.

At least until he looked up and saw Castiel standing stock-still among the beds strewn about the temple. Styxx's handsome face, so like Acheron's broke; his lips parted, and his eyes filled with unbridled shame.

Castiel's vision blurred as uncontrollable rage billowed within him like a storm cloud. It seeped through his pores as it had done the day he'd stopped Acheron from being punished by the captain of the guard. The air grew cold, and the purple flames flickered. But the god thrusting mercilessly into Styxx's body seemed scarcely to notice, too overwhelmed by his sick pleasure in humiliating the man below him.

All the better for Castiel. He teleported across the room, reappearing next to the altar in the blink of an eye. The god only ceased his thrusting when he felt Castiel seize him by the elbow. He turned his eyes Castiel's way, and the sudden terror Castiel saw there was intoxicating to him. He shoved the god backwards, still holding tightly to his elbow. Then, with an almighty twist, Castiel snapped the god's arm sideways.

His screams echoed throughout the temple. Castiel let the noise fill him, raising him up like a prayer. But he couldn't take time to revel in the feeling of the bastard god's pain and fear. Styxx had scrambled from the altar, clutching his peplos and cloak to his naked body. Castiel strode towards him, hand outstretched. At that moment, the humiliation and pain in his face made him look the spitting image of Acheron; Castiel was so used to Styxx being the more composed of the two despite all he'd been through that the brokenness in his expression was unbearable.

Castiel faced the now sobbing god, who was clutching his broken arm to his chest.

"What are you?" The god choked.

"As of this moment," Castiel growled, "I am your enemy. Tell all of them—all of your pantheon—that if they lay a finger on this man or his brother, I will rain fire down on Olympus." With that, he seized Styxx by the arm and teleported him back to his bedroom in the palace.

The second Styxx's feet touched solid ground, he staggered away from Castiel. Drops of blood splattered the floor and ran down the back of Styxx's legs. Feeling as if his intestines had been ripped from his body, Castiel took a hesitant step towards Styxx as the young prince slid to the floor, clutching the side of his head, shoulders heaving.

"Styxx..." Castiel knelt down, but Styxx would not meet his gaze. "You're hurt, I--

"No," Styxx sobbed. "Don't. I don't want you anywhere near that part of me. It's bad enough that you saw me being..." He couldn't even say the word.

Castiel felt his heart, already on the verge of breaking, shatter. "I want to help," he said, his voice small and lost.

Styxx only shook his head all the more. "You can't. You're my friend and even you being here right now is too much." His sobs shook with sudden hysterical laughter. "They're taking everything from me. I thought I had no dignity left, but this? All that's left is for them to fuck me in front of Acheron."

The panic returned, paramount now that Castiel was certain Acheron was in some kind of danger. 

Styxx wiped his streaming eyes on the back of his hands. Trying to sound somewhat more composed he said, "Where is he?"

"I don't know." Hot, stinging tears filled Castiel's eyes. "I went to collect him and he went to that other temple. The one next to Apollo's."

"Artemis." Styxx sounded almost relieved. "He'd be safe there. Artemis is supposed to be ever virginal."

"But Styxx, I can't feel him. I can't hear his soul or feel his presence, not anywhere. Michael distracted me at the garden and--" Castiel froze, the words resounding within him. Michael had distracted him. He'd pointed Acheron to the temple of Artemis, and it was only after that that Acheron had seemingly disappeared. Slowly, Castiel got to his feet, feeling as if he were slowly sinking into the impregnable ice of a glacier.

"Who's Michael?"

"My brother," Castiel said numbly. "Another angel. He was here for some reason in this gray haired man's body."

Styxx struggled to his feet, barely suppressing a wince. When Castiel made to move to him Styxx shook his head. "I'm fine," he said through gritted teeth. "It's not the first time I've had to be on the mend in this way. Dionysus may be ruthless but he'd never permanently break one his playthings."

Castiel's stomach roiled at the thought.

"Why would your brother want to distract you?"

 _Because_ , an insidious but perfectly reasonable voice in Castiel's head said, _he wants to take Acheron from you. He will stop at nothing to bring you back to Heaven..._

And, as Castiel looked at Styxx through his streaming eyes—at the peplos covering his modesty and the blood streaking his legs, he realized that the prince's most recent degradation had been another one of Michael's distractions; because there was nothing Castiel would not do to keep both brothers safe.

His legs giving way, Castiel crumpled to the floor, chest heaving. It wasn't fair; all he wanted was to help. Why couldn't Heaven leave him be? What did the Father care if Castiel turned his back to save two mere humans? For that matter, what did Michael care? But Castiel knew that with Michael's unfaltering obedience that he considered a vow such as the one Castiel had made to Styxx and Acheron to be of the greatest insult.

Styxx knelt gingerly next to Castiel, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Castiel stilled, the comforting gesture foreign to him. This close he could smell Styxx's sweat and his blood and traces of something stark and sharp that he knew to be the remnants of Dionysus's essence. The proximity was alarming but also gave him the opportunity to press his hand to a spot just above Styxx's tailbone and let his healing grace flow.

Styxx's breath caught in his throat. He turned grateful, if slightly reproachful eyes, to Castiel.

"You didn't have to do that," he said.

"It's all I can do right now. I've never felt this helpless before; this betrayed..."

"Welcome to my world," Styxx said bracingly. "And Acheron's for that matter."

They stayed that way for a long while. Outside the sounds of celebration only increased as the day wore on. Castiel felt truly wretched, but the beginnings of sinister anger had already started to chase the hurt and worry away. In the event that Michael ever dared interfere again, Castiel would not hesitate to unleash the full brunt of his wrath on his brother.

Styxx left to clean himself off, and returned in a clean peplos.

"Nothing yet?" He asked. Castiel, resting on a plush couch with his elbows on his knees as his head in his hands, grimaced.

"Nothing."

Styxx curled his lip. "If you'll pardon me saying so, your Heaven sounds no better than our Olympus."

"I don't think it is."

Gently, Styxx crawled into bed. After a moment of prolonged silence, he said, "Castiel?"

"Yes."

"Would it be too much to ask of you to...help me see something pleasant when I close my eyes?"

Of course he was still broken from his attack. Castiel crossed the room, and knelt down beside Styxx; the young prince's eyes look distant, more broken than Castiel had ever seen them before. With a soft touch of his hand, Castiel eased Styxx into a dreamless slumber, listening to the gentle sound of his breath.

The afternoon wore on into evening, and still there was no sign of Acheron's soul. Castiel paced, restless and worried and irritable. Once or twice he chanced a look out the great windows and sent an accident gal bolt of lightning from the clouds and into the feathered body of an innocent bird. What if Michael had taken Acheron from the temple of Artemis? What if he, Castiel, was losing his own powers? The thought of being untethered from Acheron in any way twisted his heart with dread. He didn't want to be in Heaven—he wanted to be here, on Earth, with Acheron and his brother. Why Michael couldn't accept that was telling of his sycophantic need for the Father's approval.

Golden rays of sunlight dipped to the surface of the sea. The light shot along the water, bathing Didymos in amber and red.

Castiel stilled.

He heard the sound of the soul he'd been desperate to find—only Acheron wasn't screaming—he was simply despondent, lost and confused and hurt and...

"He's...calling my name..." Castiel couldn't believe it, even as the overwhelming relief all but constricted his throat. Acheron's soul had never called him by name before, never directed its lonely, wretched pleas his way.

Castiel disappeared, focusing on the tether of Acheron's soul to guide him through space. It was only when he appeared once again in Acheron's bedroom that he felt truly foolish for having not just walked the short distance between his bedroom and Styxx's chambers.

Acheron stood near the window, looking out on the city that had been nothing but cruel to him. He turned, sensing Castiel's presence. 

The sight of him, safe and ostensibly unharmed, broke something within Castiel. It was as if his relief was so great that it had swallowed his sea of spiralling emotions whole, leaving him without any desire other than to be with the beautiful man before him. He crossed the room and, before he could stop himself—before he could remember that he was supposed to be keeping his distance for Acheron's safety—Castiel flung his arms around Acheron's chest.

Acheron did not shy away or flinch or go still. He pulled Castiel close, the warmth of his body and beating of his heart the most incredible sensations Castiel had ever felt. It wasn't like being back in the river, where he felt he had no control over his feelings or the response of his treacherous body. This wasn't desire or whatever it was that had been invading his thoughts these last few days—this was need: for reassurance, for protection, for a reciprocation of something so amazing and bigger than the scope of the whole universe that he couldn't even put a name to it.

Acheron pressed his cheek to the side of Castiel's face. In a voice as soft and despairing as a shrill sigh of winter wind, he said, "I'm sorry."

Castiel stared at Acheron in disbelief. "What are you talking about? Sorry? For what?"

Acheron sighed, stepping away from Castiel and staring once more out the window. His expression was something beyond pain and loathing—an almost self-imposed exile of everything that made him human.

"I thought that if I found another greater being that they would treat me with the same kindness."

"Which was my fault," Castiel said. "I put the notion in your head."

Acheron's shoulders heaved in another agonized sigh. He spoke as if Castiel weren't truly in the room. "I thought you were starting to hate me. Ever since that day at the river, I felt this distance. As if you no longer wanted to be around me. I wouldn't have gone today--wouldn't have said yes to Ryssa's wanting me to escort her—if it hadn't been that I was afraid of being alone again...that you'd truly grown tired of me."

Castiel couldn't speak, his culpability in whatever had caused Acheron's present malaise choking him.

"When that man told me I'd find someone in the temple to help, I thought he meant a priestess or a scribe. I never thought I would find her. Waiting there and so...willing." His fingers curled around the smooth stone sill of the window. "I suppose you're the only one aside from Styxx who isn't affected by this damnable air I have. A goddess," Acheron added with a wry, almost disbelieving smile, "and she still wanted me the second she lied eyes on me."

The obstruction in Castiel's throat cleared with a monumental effort. Trying his utmost to keep any and all emotion from his voice, he said, "Artemis. You and Artemis..."

Acheron faced him, and there was such guilt in his moonlit eyes that it almost knocked Castiel off his feet. A single tear slid down his cheek as he stepped closer to Castiel and knelt in the ground before him. Slowly, he circled his arms around Castiel's waist, and buried his face in the angel's chest.

"Forgive me," Acheron all but whimpered. "Castiel, please forgive me. I only thought that she would be different than the rest—more like you. But she hated me after we'd been together...after she learned that she'd let a worthless tsoulus touch her."

It felt as if the air were filled with billions of invisible, needling insects, all pricking at Castiel's skin with thorny, blood sucking mouths. Acheron had lain with the goddess Artemis. 

"There's no need to beg forgiveness," he said, speaking to the wall above Acheron's head. "I have no ownership over you, Acheron.”

"Are you really so cold?" Acheron stared up at Castiel, looking broken and incredulous. "Do you really not feel--

"I should return to Styxx's chamber," he said quietly; his shock, disappointment and betrayal were so that he felt almost disoriented.   
  
Acheron frowned. "Is he alright?"

"No," Castiel managed to say. "He was attacked this afternoon. Dionysus."

Blood drained from Acheron's face. He stared out the window at the night sky again. His voice dripping with bitter self-loathing, he said, "Why did I think she would keep us safe?"

"Because," Castiel replied, his voice trembling with a treacherous hurt that he did not at all like, "I obviously can't." Before Acheron could move--before Castiel could risk the chance of seeing those broken, haunted eyes--Castiel vanished, and reappeared in Styxx's chamber.

The prince was still fast asleep, which was all the better. Castiel barely made it two steps across the floor before he collapsed to his hands and knees, feeling as if he'd been pierced with thousands of fiery blades. Acheron had sought comfort with Artemis--a comfort she had willingly given because of her attraction--the attraction that Castiel had worked so hard to tamp down.   
  
It wasn't fair, that he should feel something so strong, so horrendous, while others continued to give into the pull . He wanted nothing more than to be plucked from the face of existence--to disappear so utterly and completely that nothing could find him again. But no such mercy was granted to him, and so he simply stayed there on the hard ground of Styxx's bedroom floor, his body wracked with an uncontrollable grief as, for the first time in his existence, Castiel cried like a human.

Cried for the absolute wreckage that he, and his mission of mercy, had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael being behind everything...it's almost as if I don't like him or something.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

"Acheron, are you sure you're alright?"

Acheron hadn't slept for very long. He'd awoken only a few minutes after Castiel had returned from his unexpected encounter with Apollymi. Dressed in his typical trend of a band t-shirt—this one a bearing the _Dark Side of the Moon_ logo from _Pink Floyd_ —and leather pants, Acheron certainly appeared to be ready for anything; yet his whole body was tense as a bowstring. 

"I'll live," he said, albeit with concerted effort. Then, noticing the scepticism on Cas's face, he calmed himself. "I'm just not over the moon about you seeing me like that."

"Nor am I." Remembering his conversation with Apollymi, he couldn't help but hurriedly add, "If there were no other circumstances—no strings attached...would you rid the world of her?"

Acheron sighed. For a long moment he contemplated the masonry of his bedroom walls. Then he gave a slight nod. "Being beholden to anything--to anything that isn't what I feel for you—makes me feel just as insignificant as I did growing up. She knows it and she toys with it whenever she's in a mood. Like a child pulling the wings off a butterfly, not that I consider myself a butterfly at all. To be free of that—to be free for you...I want it more than anything in the universe." He smiled, but once again the joy was fleeting. The muscles in his shoulders bunched; his eyes grew momentarily dark and he shook his head as if clearing it of such a ridiculous notion as being free from torment. Like a creeping tide, dark black shot through the blonde of his hair. 

"We better go," he said. "Your friends will be missing you. If they really did get on the bad side of a Spathi, then they'll need more than just a history lesson from Simi."

Ash threw a hand out and Castiel's trench coat flew from the floor. "Here," Acheron held the jacket out, but Cas shook his head. 

"It's a remnant," he said. "I don't want to wear it right now. I prefer this." He plucked at the overlarge _Nazareth_ t-shirt. 

Acheron chuckled, and then his jaw tensed as if he were experiencing a momentary pain. "It's fine," he said; Castiel had made to help him. "Come on. I'd like to make a proper introduction, seeing as your friends are so famous that Simi knows them." Putting his shades over his eyes, Acheron took Castiel's hand in his. Air pressed in around them, and a moment later they were standing back in the kitchenette of the _Proud Mary_ motel. 

Castiel started at the sight of the tall man standing before Sam, Dean, and—to his immense surprise—Charlie Bradbury. Long, dark hair framed a sharply angelled face and intense eyes. Two metal claws were attached to the man's hands. Castiel gaped as the lethal warrior looked his way.

"Monkey Man!" His thickly accented voice sounded over the moon. "Akri!" A moment later, the man disappeared, his appearance melting back into that of Simi, who hurried over to Ash and gave him a tight hug. "Simi was just telling the story of Zarek and Astrid falling in love!"

Cas's eyes widened. "Zarek? In love with...Astrid? _The_ Astrid? Themis's daughter?"

"Long story," Acheron said with a grim smile. Again, his whole body seemed wracked with a momentary spasm of pain. 

"They were _all_ incredibly long stories." Sam's words were slightly slurred. He was sitting at the small dining table, several open bottles of beer around him. "Very long and very, very sad."

Charlie, her hair as red as ever, got to her feet. Her eyes were very bright; she looked first to Castiel and then to Acheron. She hurried to Cas a moment later and gave him a tight hug. Cas felt warmth course through him—he could always count on Charlie to make him feel appreciated. 

"Hey, featherbrain," she whispered.

"Hello, Charlie."

Charlie let go of him, her eyes filled with tears. Then she glanced at Acheron—or rather, up and then up once more the better to look Acheron in his dark sunglasses. "I'm very honored and terrified to meet you," she said, holding her hand out. In spite of whatever was causing his discomfort, Ash accepted the handshake with a fanged smile that made Charlie squeak in surprise. 

"No need to be afraid. Any friend of Castiel's is a friend of mine."

Charlie let out a sad sigh and then slowly sank back into her chair; there was a fat, coil-bound notebook open in front of her. "I've been keeping notes," she said almost as if she couldn't quite believe it. "I can't make heads or tails of anything but if what Simi has been saying is true then...I'm so sorry for everything you've been through. Both of you."

Ash turned to Simi, who had found a leftover carton of barbecue chicken wings and was eating them, bones and all, in apparent delight. 

"How much did you tell them?"

Simi licked teriyaki from her lips and said brightly, "Everything! From when akri was hurting as a human to when Monkey Man found him and up to Zarek and Astrid." Her nostrils flared. "Simi also told them about the heifer being the universe's biggest bitch of an evil red head. No offense, Charlie."

"None taken," Charlie said, still looking as if she'd been clubbed over the head. "I'm actually considering dyeing my hair after that. Maybe go dark black."

"It's look very fetching on you," Acheron said chivalrously. 

Sam, his head face down on the table, let out a giggle. Frowning, Castiel quickly counted the empty beer bottles. Almost an entire case worth.

"Are you going to be alright, Sam?"

"He's gonna be fine," Dean said. Perched on the arm of the sofa, he'd been silent up until that moment. He also appeared to be the most sober, although his gaze was hard as flint and his lips were pressed together in dagger-like line. "It's going to take more than a twenty four pack to knock him in his ass." Dean got to his feet, watching Castiel and Acheron, his expression inscrutable. But still, just underneath the veneer of the quiet calm, Castiel could feel the teeming emotion—the confusion and the anger that it brought on. If there was one thing Dean Winchester could not abide in any situation, it was feeling helpless and confused. 

"How does any of this--” he gestured as at the copious notes that Charlie had taken--"make a lick of sense? Everything that we thought we knew about what we do, what we are, it's not even the half of the picture. Christ, is it even real? Are you even a real angel, Cas?" Pain flickered in Dean's green eyes for a moment.

Ash observed Dean from behind his sunglasses. For a moment there was no sound in the room aside from Sam, now snoring facedown on the dining room table. Acheron turned to Cas and said, "The ball's in your court, angel. You've seen both sides more than I have. Besides, I need to sit down or I'm going to make the worst throw rug this motel has ever seen."

"The best looking throw rug," Castiel amended with a small smile. Grinning, Ash navigated his way to the free chair, bracing his head on his hand. Simi followed, her eyes rife with worry. 

Between Castiel's own concern for the man he loved and the euphemistic parting he'd had with Apollymi, concentrating was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment. But Sam, Dean and Charlie, being his closest friends, had a right to know. 

"The world that you've lived in all your lives is real," Castiel began. "Terribly so for all that it's taken from you. But it and this world—the world of the Dark Hunters and the Were Hunters and the demons like Simi and gods like Acheron...it's tied to it from one singular source. Simi told you about Apollites and Daimons, right?"

Dean nodded. 

"All of the monsters and creatures you've faced—the vampires and werewolves and djinni and ghouls—all come from the same source. The same person. A child of Apollo who went on to mother a darkness that even Apollo wasn't aware of at first."

Dean's lips parted; Charlie stared at Castiel in astonishment. 

"Eve," Charlie said breathlessly. "You're talking about Eve, aren't you?"

Castiel nodded. "She was an Apollite. One who survived after the world was recreated following, uh...certain circumstances." He glanced at Acheron, who was rubbing his temples while Simi leaned her head on his shoulder. 

"How is that possible,” Dean said. “Edgar told us that Eve was around before angels and demons.”

"Edgar only knew as much as he'd been alive for," Castiel replied. "After the first destruction of the known world, my Father wanted to start again. He wanted the world cleansed of the Apollite and Daimons, and so he created a sort of brute squad.”

Charlie gasped. “You mean…the Leviathans?”

“Yes. My Father wanted the world to be a blank slate, but the Leviathans proved too unruly, as you know. And so he created Eden. Even with the Garden, there were still Apollites and Daimons scouring the world for victims."

"And let me guess," Dean sighed. "Your pops created Eden to keep his second crack at Mankind safe from them."

"Yes. But Lucifer had learned how to calculate for extra assurance." Something he'd learned from Michael's convoluted plan to take Acheron and Styxx away from Castiel. "It wasn't enough for him to make Adam and Eve fall; he had to be sure that they would be in danger outside the Garden. And so he found and forced himself upon Eve—an Apollite woman."

"And she gave birth to the Alpha monsters," Charlie finished. Castiel's nod did nothing to make Charlie feel better—if anything, she looked utterly put out. "But if that's the case, why haven't we bumped into Daimons and Apollites and Dark Hunters before now? Why only the monsters that we've fought?"

Acheron, still looking as if he were suffering from a migraine, said, "Apollites and Daimons have specific needs. Very specific. They're driven by them. The primordial monsters Eve birthed only seek to exist as they are, by any means necessary. They aren't limited by the curse of their twenty-seventh year being their last."

"As for the Dark Hunters, they go where the nasty Daimons go," said Simi. 

"Which doesn't include the American interior," Castiel finished. "There aren't enough densely populated areas for them to pass unseen. Besides that, they wouldn't exactly go unnoticed in some of the backwoods communities we've visited. You've seen how beautiful they are." 

Dean exhaled. Castiel could practically hear the gears in his head turning as he processed this influx of information, and he'd barely scratched the surface. Unless of course Simi had revealed Acheron's true nature as a Chthonian—one of the great balancing beings that could kill gods. 

"And what about that nasty we saw last night," Dean said. "The punk with the dragon tattoo?"

"Spathi warrior," Castiel said. "They're Apollites that can be reincarnated."

"And they serve my dear old mom." Ash was now sitting with his head on the table, looking, for all the world, like the still slumbering Sam. 

"So if we kill this Spathi, it'll come back." Dean sounded truly perturbed. "Fantastic. Fuck, is there any hope for us pathetic little meat sacks?"

"Tons," Acheron said softly. "Humans have so much potential it isn't even funny."

"Better make it funny," Dean muttered. "I could use a good ha-ha right now. So we can't kill the Spathi for good then? I wish we had the Colt right about now. One blast with that beauty could put a whole through anything's skull."

Castiel felt an excited heat course through his body at Dean's words. He remembered what Apollymi had said to him in Katoteros--" _I've heard that a gun can kill anything."_

He stared at Acheron, who was breathing deeply as if trying to force his way through some kind of pain. He had said that if there were no other circumstances...but Cas didn't need Artemis dead, not if he had leverage over her.

"What can kill the Spathi for good?"

"Akri can!" Simi said brightly. "Not that he would. Akri always says that just because you can do something doesn't mean you should."

"Helpful," Dean muttered, and Castiel found himself inclined to agree. 

"Hellchasers as well," Castiel added. At the bemused look on Dean and Charlie’s faces, he added, “They’re sort of like probation officers for things that escape from a specific type of hell.”

Dean snorted. "And apparently they can also be werewolves. Were Hunters. Whatever."

Castiel frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Fang," Dean said. "Aimee's boyfriend from Sanctuary. He was hot on our heels last night when we were chasing the Spathi. The demonic fuck called him a katagaria Hellchaser."

Castiel rounded on Acheron, completely blindsided. "Aimee's boyfriend? How is that even possible?"

"Ask Savitar," Ash murmured.

"Who's that?" both Dean and Charlie asked at the same time.

Castiel reached his limit. His wings expanded in a sudden burst of irritation. "Alright. Enough. One thing at a time." Despite his words, however, a plan was rapidly forming in his mind—one that would give nearly everyone present—including Fang—exactly what they wanted. 

Acheron let out a groan. Charlie, Simi, Castiel and Dean all stared at him in concern. Cas crouched down, and laid a hand on Acheron's arm. 

"What's wrong, _imora_?”

Acheron glanced at him over the top of his shades. There was a sickly red hue to his white eyes, as if they were filling with blood. Despite the alarming scarlet shine and Ash's tense frame, he looked somehow sheepish. 

"It's fine," he whispered. "I just...haven't fed in about a week now."

Castiel went cold. “She didn't let you drink from her?"

"She wasn't exactly accommodating," Acheron murmured. "Maybe she wants me to go on the warpath."

"I'll kill her," Castiel stormed, getting to his feet and pacing around the room. "I'll kill her myself!"

"Oh, Monkey Man! Leave Simi just a little bit to nibble on. Simi finally found this new flavor of hot sauce called scorpion rum that would taste just perfect."

"I'm getting a little tired of saying this," Dean said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But what the fuck is going on?"

"He's blood bonded to Artemis," Cas said. "If he doesn't drink of her consistently he gets ravenous. But don't worry; we're all going to Sanctuary and he'll be safe there. The Ursulan there will keep him under watch and can handle him if he blues out."

"And what about Sam?" Charlie nodded at the youngest Winchester, now fast asleep and drooling on the table. 

"We'll take him with us." Cas turned to Simi. "Can you take the three of them? I'll take your akri with me and set him up for the night."

Simi nodded. Castiel knew that if it were anyone else besides him, she'd have refused point blank. 

"Wait a second," Dean said. "Before we hit the highway, I wanna talk to you. Like, privately." 

"Dean, I really don't think we have--

"This is important," Dean said. "It won't take long."

Sighing, Castiel followed Dean outside the suite and into the parking lot. The night was clear, but still crisp and chill. Dean led Castiel towards the Impala, and for one moment, Cas contemplates teleporting back into the motel. If Dean wanted to take him on a drive then he had another thing coming. 

Dean faced him, and he looked so disarmed—so suddenly vulnerable, that Castiel's irritation dissipated almost instantaneously.

"I'm not good at this," Dean said, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. "But...Cas, I feel like a righteous dickstain for what I said to you before. That's not who I am. Well, I mean, it's not who I wanna be." He sighed heavily, staring in the direction of the motel suite. "If you really love this Acheron guy then...that's great. I'm happy for you. And it sounds like you've both been through some seriously awful shit together. I was just surprised more than anything. All this new stuff to learn about...it's an overload after Purgatory." 

A part of Castiel had truly been counting on this. Whatever Sam said to the contrary, Dean wasn't the asshole that most people proclaimed him to be. And what was more, he wasn't his father. 

"Isn't this what you would deem one of your chick flick moments?" 

"Royally. But sometimes we need them." Dean held his hand out, and Castiel gripped it firmly. "We good?"

"Yes. Now can we please get a move on?"

"Got some dynamite under your ass, Cas?" 

"Something like that."

* * *

 

Castiel teleported into the main dining area of Sanctuary just as the band started a new set. He kept one arm around Acheron's waist and the other in his chest to steady him; his breaths were all but forcibly even as he struggled to maintain his composure. 

Aimee Peltier, relieved of covering serving in lieu of her real station as manager, paused on her way from the bar when she saw Castiel and Acheron. A moment later she was all but rushing over, dodging patrons and staff alike as Simi, her wings having melded into her back, teleported behind Acheron and Castiel, Charlie, Dean and a barely awake Sam holding onto her. 

"Holy crap, T-Rex," Aimee said once she was level with Ash and Castiel. "Next time send a memo before you drop in with a whole party of--" Aimee paused, her nose twitching. She looked from Cas to Acheron, and sniffed the air. 

Her eyes widened.

"Woah."

She took another breath, staring with particular interest at Castiel.

"Woah..."

Comprehension dawned on her face; she gave a delighted little clap, staring between Ash and Cas with her eyes alight. " _Woah-ho_!"

Fang Kattalakis sauntered up behind her, sliding an arm around her waist. "Hey baby. What's--" Then be paused, sniffed the air, looked from Acheron to Castiel, and said, "Woah. Woah... _Woah_!" Fang beamed. "Holy crap, this explains so much! Yo Dev!" He called across the crowd. "I was right about T-Rex! You owe five hundred dollars!"

"I knew I should have changed my clothes," Castiel sighed. Acheron chuckled, and then hissed. 

"What's wrong with him?" Aimee asked. 

"He's been deprived of blood all week. I was wondering if--"

"We'll take him to one of the rooms we use for the Drakos," Fang said. "As long as you don't mind a few burns on the rug, T-Rex."

"Sounds like paradise," Acheron grunted. He quickly kissed Castiel and followed Fang across the crowded floor towards the stairs. Even though Castiel knew he was in good hands with Fang, he still couldn't prevent the strangling worry for Acheron. 

"Judging by the looks of all of you," Aimee said, "you could use some drinks. Except maybe that character with the Herbal Essences commercial hair."

Sam had his cheek to the top of Charlie's head, and was rubbing his face across her hair with a sleepy, stupid smile on his face. "Your hair feels like sunshine," Sam slurred. "What shampoo do you use, Charlie?"

"Um...Pantene?" Charlie looked truly uncomfortable. 

"Yeah I think you need to sleep this one off, Hot Stuff." Aimee took Sam by the arm and pulled him away from Charlie, her considerable strength taking him completely by surprise." 

"How did she do that?" Sam said. "So strong..."

"Add the room to the tab," Dean said.

Aimee shook her head as she handed Sam off to her brother, Remi, who glowered at his sister. "No way, Hotter Stuff. You're friends with Mister Blue Eyes, and as Mister Blue Eyes is Acheron’s boyfriend, we'll offer you the room for free. Just for tonight though. But if Hot Stuff ralphs all over the floor, you'll be cleaning it up." 

"Hot and Hotter?" Dean said. "Don't flatter me too much, Aimee."

Grinning, Aimee led Cas, Dean and Charlie to the bar. Simi followed, until she caught sight of several young women with a table to themselves. 

"Tabby! Mandy!" Simi bounded away happily. 

"Just a quick drink," Castiel said tensely. "We've got a job to do remember."

"Don't be such a buzz kill, Buzz Killington," Dean said. "I've got a lot to process." He gratefully accepted a bottle of Pabst from Aimee. "You down, Charlie?"

"Uh," Charlie's eyes roved over the shelves and taps. "Maybe just some tiny wine...from the kitchen..."

"And you, Mister Blue Eyes?" Aimee said expectantly.

Cas shook his head. "I'm really not thirsty." In any case, he had more important things on his mind, not least of which was finding the Spathi. 

He didn't want to think about what lengths he would have to go to in order to keep Acheron stable. He could suffice on blood that wasn't Artemis's, but not for as long; in any case, to quench such a long thirst he would have to drain someone almost to the brink of death. Castiel was fully prepared in that event to offer himself, although if he died in the attempt, he knew it would destroy Acheron all over again. The only alternative was to convince Artemis, and he didn't even want to think about what she would ask for in return.

Unless, of course, the hunt for the Spathi proved successful.

Fang returned from the upstairs rooms of Sanctuary after almost ten minutes. Cas slid off his bar stool and met the Hellchaser at the foot of the stairs. 

"How is he?" 

Fang looked around and then motioned for Castiel to follow him down one of the hallways leading to the backstage access. The noise here wasn't as loud, but the blasting music filling the ground floor beyond provided the perfect cover. 

"He's in shit shape," Fang said. "I don't know how much longer we can expect him to stay perfectly kosher. Those walls will hold him, but if he gets super pissed..."

"He’ll go god mode," Castiel sighed. Acheron would go full Atlantean demon, and not even walls meant for a Drakos could keep him contained in that event.

"We're talking shit creek, no paddles for miles."

"Not necessarily. You know the Spathi you were chasing last night?"

Fang narrowed his eyes. "Yes. 

"If we trap him and give you the kill to take back to Thorn, will you do me a favor in return?" 

Fang stared at Castiel for a long time. Castiel could feel the mingle trifecta of his katagaria wolf heart, his cursed Hellchaser fire, and his human soul. 

"If it means keeping my mate safe—if it means keeping my family and safe and T-Rex on the level, then I'd be a fool to refuse. Besides, Thorn's been busting my nutsack to collar this piece of scum for weeks." His rusty hazel eyes held Castiel's gaze. "You're sweet on Acheron. It doesn't take me smelling certain things on both of you to know that. Any friend of his is a friend of mine. What can I do for you if you really can trap the Spathi?"

Castiel grinned, bolstered by Fang's willingness to co-operate. "I need you to take me back in time so I can get a certain gun from an old friend." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fang will always be my favorite of the DH boys. He and Aimee are so incredible together. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	14. Chapter 14

Castiel awoke the morning following Acheron's liaison with Artemis to find himself comfortably set up on the plush bench near Styxx's hearth. He assumed that the young prince had thoughtfully laid him on the settee some time during the night. 

He felt truly wretched, as if bits and pieces of himself were being stripped away and fed to ravenous, rabid animals. He wanted nothing more than to placate the insatiable hunger--to go to Acheron's room and come as clean as he possibly could. But he could not feel Acheron's soul that morning; Castiel supposed he'd been spirited away to Olympus, despite the threat he'd made to Dionysus the previous day. So there was nothing to be done but give himself over to the biting, sucking feeling of numb miserableness. 

Not even bothering to keep himself invisible, Castiel left Styxx's chambers and wandered aimlessly through the halls. The palace hadn't recovered from the festivities of the previous day; the servants works slower, and many of the guards were dead in their feet. None of them questioned the appearance of the strange with the dark curls and cool blue eyes in their midst; for all any of them knew, Castiel was a guest left over from the endless celebrations of the previous day...the celebrations in honor of a young woman willingly gifting her innocence to a capricious god; celebrations that had taken place while their prince had been forcefully taken by another god...while the young man they'd abused had given himself to a goddess.

At that moment, Castiel felt that choking claws of true hatred rend at his throat and tear at his lungs. He hated the gods of these people for taking without thought of others; hated these ignorant people for turning a blind eye to those in need. His hatred scorched his skin, threatening to crack his vessel open and spill out unfiltered along the lavish blue and green rugs along the floor of the palace. 

But most of all, he hated himself for having been so woefully blind as to think there was a thing he could have done to help. He'd been in Didymos for a little over a week, and had accomplished nothing aside from what? A few fleeting moments of happiness for Acheron and Styxx? What did those matter when they couldn't escape the treachery and horror of their lives? 

Perhaps Michael had a point, as cruel and evil as he had gone about trying to make it: maybe he, Castiel, really was fighting a losing battle?

He wandered to a grand courtyard. Marble statuary of gods and beautiful creatures stood nestled among beautiful shrubs of richest green. Fountains gurgle happily in the morning light, the low murmur of them setting the whole quiet area at peace. Song birds flitted from laurel and cypress trees. It was truly a Sanctuary, and even in his turbulent mood, Castiel couldn't help but pause to admire it. 

"Would only that there was a place like this on Earth," he said quietly, "where all was beautiful and serene. I would hide there for an age and age; and I would keep Styxx and Acheron safe there with me."

"Some would say," a quiet voice behind Castiel remarked, "that talking to oneself is a sign of madness."

Styxx was leaning against one of the innermost columns. At the surprised look on Castiel's face, he offered him his arm. "You seem vexed, angel. And after finding you curled up on my bedroom floor this morning, I think it's high time you had a sympathetic ear."

Castiel hesitated. "I've no right to complain." He stared at Styxx searchingly; how was it that the young prince was already recovered from the trauma of his assault? Was he truly that jaded of his fate?

Styxx seemed to be reading Castiel's mind. "I've been victimized so long by this world and theirs that burying it is only too easy for me." Pain flickered in his ocean blue eyes. Despite his words, Castiel felt that Styxx wasn't quite as immune to his constant stream of degradation as he let on. 

They walked at an easy pace among the hedges and flowers. "You have every right to complain," Styxx went on. "You're among mortals now, Castiel. To complain is to be human. But come: what is it that's got you speaking to yourself like a madman?" 

Castiel chewed on his tongue, not knowing if revealing the cause of his misery was prudent. Again, Styxx surprised him with apparent telepathy.

"Is it Acheron?" He was staring at a statue of a stag, tall and proud with forked antlers. 

Castiel sighed. "Yes. He was...with Artemis yesterday."

Styxx arched his brows. "Shit. It seems all three of us royal children were blessed by the gods on the same day."

One of the tufts of Hyacinthus near the edge of the stag went up in a puff of flames. Styxx started and then stared at the scowl on Castiel's face in astonishment. 

"Can you please," Castiel said, his anger rising, "stop talking about all these horrible things as if they're nothing? I feel at fault enough for--"

"Castiel!" Styxx seized him by the shoulders, eyes intense. "What happened yesterday was _not_ your fault."

"And whose is it?' Castiel stormed out of Styxx's grasp and marched towards a smooth bench, sitting down with a huff. "Certainly not yours for making the mistake of being victim to Dionysus. And not Acheron. I should have been paying  attention; I should not have allowed Michael to distract me."

"The only blame is the hand that struck the blow," Styxx said fiercely. "No matter what circumstances were against us, the only ones at fault were Dionysus, Apollo and Artemis."

"But if I didn't feel what I felt for Acheron, then I wouldn't have--" Castiel stopped, realizing what he'd just inadvertently revealed. 

Styxx blinked. "What you feel?" His eyes widened. "You're falling in love with him aren't you?"

Castiel stared at his feet. "I don't understand love."

"I think you understand more than you think, if it's making you feel so miserable."

"It hardly matters now. He's enamoured with Artemis." Castiel stared at the clouds passing through the blue sky overhead. Was Acheron really among the place of the gods? He scowled. "I don't understand this. He said that she cast him out once she learned that he used to be a tsoulus...and yet he's gone back. He always goes back; he's always thought that I've wanted more than what I do want." 

Styxx observed Castiel as if he were a child understanding the world for the first time--which, admittedly, was exactly what the angel felt like at that moment. 

"Sometimes it's easier for a man to return to a pile of steaming filth he's known his whole life than it is for him to jump in a crystal clear river he finds in his path one day." Styxx's voice was low, his head slightly bowed as if the weight of his words were too much for him; but his eyes burned with an intensity like blue fire, and Castiel felt himself shiver at the heat he saw there. "It's safe," Styxx continued. "It's familiar. All Acheron had ever known is that he's only worth what people can get out of him. He knows what to expect when he's treated like a tsoulus. There's no risk for him in it. But this? You may be frightened by what you feel for Acheron; but what he feels for you is a petrifying gorgon's stare. He's running away because he'd rather carry on being abused than take the terrifying chance that someone loves him for more than just his body."

Castiel gripped the edges of the stone bench so tightly that he felt his skin scrape. "I've done all I can to show him that I only want his happiness," he said quietly. "What more can I do?"

"I wish I knew," Styxx said sadly. "I tried to be present for him when he came back from Atlantis; but it was never enough. He was too consumed with anger and betrayal and I...I suppose I didn't help as much as I could."

Bitter injustice flooded Castiel to the point where he could almost taste it on his tongue--acrid and biting and horrible. He looked to the sky again, and felt an overwhelming urge to scream. 

"What am I supposed to do?"

Styxx took Castiel's chin in his fingers, tilting his face upwards the better to see into those wise, haunted eyes. "I wish I knew," Styxx said softly. He sighed, his thumb smoothing over Castiel's skin. "And I wish...I wish I could find my own angel."

"Styxx, I--

"It's alright." Styxx let go of Castiel's face. "If there's one thing I pride myself on being it's a stupidly, perpetual optimist. I dream and I dream and I dream because that's all I can do. Sometimes all we can do is wait and dream when it's too dark to do anything otherwise." Lost in a sudden fog of malaise, Styxx walked away into the garden. Castiel felt his heart grow heavy as Styxx slowly walked away from him.  The prince was so unlike Acheron--so resigned to his life where his brother fought tooth and nail within himself for something better.

The breeze picked up. Castiel watched a single leaf part from one of the laurel trees. It floated gently to earthward and then landed with barely a ripple on the surface of one of the fountains. 

Tossed aside, he thought. And like he, Acheron and Styxx, there was nothing to do but wait to see whether it would be pulled under the water and lost forever. 

* * *

Waiting proved unbearable, but only at first. As the days bled into weeks, Castiel found himself adapting to the absence of Acheron. Artemis wanted him daily, despite the fact that he returned always morose and, on several instances, in tears. Castiel was not and would never be present for their trysts, and he could only guess as to why Artemis continued to show Acheron such scorn despite spiriting him away almost daily. 

Whatever the case was, he found himself growing to hate the goddess almost as much as he hated Apollo and Dionysus, simply for the state she reduced Acheron to. Heartbroken at being rebuffed for his status as a tsoulus, Acheron took to drinking to numb the pain nearly every night he returned. 

"You don't have to stay by him," Styxx said one night. Acheron had passed out on his bedroom floor, a half-empty skin of wine near his elbow. "This is of his own doing."

"It's mine," Castiel said decidedly. "He's only run to her because I suggested it and because I tried to pull away. Besides...I can't abandon him just because he's making a mistake--just because he's in such a shameful state." He knelt down and brushed a strand of Acheron's blonde hair out of his head. As he did so, he noticed something about Acheron's lips--a red stain. 

"Is that...blood?" 

Styxx peered closer. "Heal him," he said sharply. "It's bad enough he's on the verge of getting sick as it is. 

Castiel held his hand out, but the blood did not disappear. Gently, he brushed Acheron's lip. No cut, no bite mark...nothing. 

"We should get him into bed," Styxx said. "The weather's turning and he'll get sick if he sleeps in the floor any longer." He and Styxx both took Acheron by the arms and legs and heaved him into bed. His peplos, loose as a result of his latest tryst with Artemis, slipped to the floor. Styxx made a grunt of disapproval, and then his eyes widened. He deposited Acheron in the mattress, rolled him over and pointed at his thigh. 

"Do you see that?" 

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "I'm not one to judge, but your brother certainly is rather endowed."

"That's not what--Castiel, it looks like something's been biting him!"

Castiel crossed to Styxx's side of the bed. Even in the near darkness of Acheron's room there was no mistaking the myriad of red marks running the length of Acheron's thigh; the wounds were red, round and spaced wide apart.

Castiel and Styxx both gasped at the same time, their minds reaching a simultaneous conclusion. The bite marks weren't of any animal; Castiel had a knowledge of all animals, as they were the Father's most innocent of all creations. These teeth marks running the length of Acheron's thighs were...

" _She's_ been biting him," Styxx said in disbelief. 

But Castiel could tell by the severity of the bite marks and the pigmentation of the skin surrounding them, that Artemis had been doing more than biting Acheron; she'd been siphoning from him. 

Without a thought for decency or decorum, Castiel stopped and covered the marks with his hand. The glow of his healing light chased away the darkness in the room; a moment later, the bite marks vanished. 

Styxx eyed Castiel with interest. "Jealous? You marked him too, after all."

"I marked him to keep him safe." Again, Castiel noticed the blood in Acheron's lip. It sickened him to think that Acheron had tasted blood, and he could only hope that it was his own. The alternative was too unbearable to stand. 

"Stay with him tonight," Styxx said. "I've still got preparations to do."

"Are you still certain?" Styxx had been preparing for his and Acheron's eventual flight from Didymos since the night after Ryssa's ceremony. His belongings were almost entirely wrapped in cloth and sacks, ready to be carried when Castiel gave the word. But Acheron's behaviour, coupled with an altogether unexpected development, had put their plans in the realm of afterthought. 

"Ryssa still thinks we're going to be around for the birth of the baby," Styxx sighed. "Is it cold of me to not care? She could die in childbirth, although I doubt Hera would let that happen. It's a miraculous event; my niece or nephew and I just...don't care."

"You have every right not to," Castiel said quietly. "I doubt she's ever cared for what's happened to you." 

Styxx sighed. "It's something isn't it? When the bond of blood isn't enough to heal the sins of the past." He stared at Acheron, his eyes growing distant and pained once again. "The sooner we get out of here the better." And with that, he left the room. 

Castiel brushed the splotch of blood in Acheron's lip away with his finger. He was so near--so present, and yet it seemed as if he were so far beyond anyone's help, least of all Castiel's. 

"I should go back," Castiel whispered, feeling himself break all the more as he watched Acheron slumber. "Back to Heaven." He was fighting a losing battle here--certainly, he could save Styxx, and Styxx was certainly worth saving. But it wasn't Styxx's soul he heard screaming--it wasn't Styxx who tormented him and terrified him and thrilled him--it wasn't Styxx who made him truly want to be human. 

It was Acheron. 

And Acheron was slipping away. 

All Castiel had to do was let go entirely. 

But not without saying goodbye. 

He bent down over Acheron. The perfect farewell. One last keepsake to remember him by--better than the river or the oceanside...something physical and lasting...

His lips were mere inches from Acheron's when he froze.

No.

Not right.

He wouldn't take. He would never take, not without Acheron's permission. 

Acheron's lips parted in a subconscious sigh. "Castiel," he mumbled, making the angel still. Acheron smiled in his sleep, his features softening. "My angel...my saving...grace..."

The words should have comforted--should have thrilled Castiel. But in that Acheron would likely be gone in the morning, they only served to drive the knife further into Castiel's ribs.

He stayed awake all night, the first vigil he'd sustained since Acheron had started on his mad affair with Artemis. As the darkness turned towards daylight, Castiel's desire to return to Heaven grew. It would be so much easier there, among the safe and familiar things he'd known--not heartbreak or betrayal or desire. 

No freedom; no autonomy; no camaraderie; no Styxx; no Acheron...no love.

Acheron woke with the crowing of the cock. He rose slowly, almost as if he ached; the affects of the wine and Artemis's feeding from him having worn him down to a sluggish crawl. 

When he saw Castiel standing diligently in the corner, he paused in the act of dressing himself. His lips parted, and he hastily checked his thighs, ostensibly looking for the bite marks left there.

"I healed you," Castiel said.

"Apparently." Acheron swallowed; he looked ashamed suddenly, which Castiel found entirely incongruous with his behavior of late. "You stayed tonight," he added.

"Yes. I was afraid you would have gotten sick or..."

"Or what?" 

Castiel swallowed, still refusing to meet Acheron's eyes. Choosing to ignore the question, he said as noncommittally as he could, "Styxx wishes to leave Didymos. I thought of taking him today. You can accompany him if you wish."

Acheron blinked. "Where will you be taking us?"

"Wherever the two of you wish to live. I'm sure anyway other than here will be suitable for somewhere to live out the rest of your days."

"Our days," Acheron said. "Why are you speaking like you won't be with us when we go?"

Castiel took a deep breath. "Because I'm going to return to Heaven afterwards. I'm no longer needed here. You certainly don't need me--at least you won't once I free you from this place."

Acheron crossed the floor, still naked as he'd awoke. He took Castiel by the shoulders, staring st him as if he'd uttered the grossest of profanities. Then his face hardened. 

"You can't leave," he said. "I don't want you to."

"So you're going to force me?"

Acheron's fist slammed into the stone wall near Castiel's ear; Castiel jumped, his heart hammering in his throat. 

"Don't do that." Acheron's voice shook. "I would never make you do anything against your will. For fuck sake, Castiel, that's terrible."

He'd struck such a heinous blow. Castiel's lips trembled, even as he registered the nearness of Acheron's body--the intensity of his gaze and the heat rolling from him.

Still, the searing confusion was too great for him to stay silent. 

"You don't need me. You have Artemis now. She marked you."

Acheron sighed, looking so suddenly defeated that Castiel wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him. He pushed himself off the wall and paced, arms around himself as if he just now felt the unseasonable chill in the air. 

"I can't stop," he sounded broken. "I don't know what she's doing to me."

Castiel took a shuddering breath. "She's been feeding from your blood."

Acheron didn't look at all surprised that Castiel was privy to such knowledge. "She hasn't only be feeding from me. I've been drinking her blood as well."

Castiel froze. "Why?"

"I don't know. At first I thought it was just a part of sex. I had people, back in Atlantis and even here, who liked using blades--who bit into my skin. But they never drank. With her, it's as if I can't get enough...like I can't survive." He stared at his hands, as if he'd wrought some unspeakable evil with them. "I hate it," he whispered. "I think I hate her as much as she hates me."

"Why?"

"Because she's not you." Acheron stared at Castiel as if he'd never seen him before. He got to his feet again and stepped directly into Castiel's personal space once more. His eyes searched for something, and Castiel wasn't adept at hiding emotion enough to conceal the very thing. Acheron raised his fingers and brushed a loose curl of Castiel's dark hair away from his face. 

In a voice on the verge of tears, Acheron whispered, "Why did you run from me? That day at the river, I thought that something had changed. That you’d started to feel what it was that I felt.”

"I do,” Castiel whispered. “Things I told myself I wouldn't feel for you. I want to be near you. When you laugh and smile, it makes me feel something so inexplicable that it frightens me. In here." He rubbed at his chest. "When you're upset—whenever I think about you in pain, or these last weeks when I’ve known you to be lost to Artemis, it feels as if something dirty and jagged is wrenching my heart out of my chest. The sound of your voice, the feel of your arms and your body..." Castiel stared at his feet, utterly defeated. "I said I wouldn't allow myself to feel these things for you, but I lied, Acheron. I can't make it stop no matter how much I try to will it away."

Acheron took Castiel's hands in his. When Castiel tried to pull away, Acheron's grip became all the more firm. The calloused pad of his thumb traced a path up and down Castiel's wrist that felt like a firebrand.

"Is that why you've been pulling away?"

Castiel nodded.

"Castiel, you aren't like the others at all. No, I mean it. I've lived with this curse long enough to know how it affects people. What you think and what you feel—it's different than desire."

"But then why do I feel like I want you so much?"

"There are other feelings besides desire. Stronger. Honest. Purer."

Styxx had explained it well enough in the garden the day before, but hearing it from Acheron’s lips would only make it all the more real. Castiel swallowed his dread. "Like what?"

Acheron's eyes held Castiel's in a gaze that promised infinity. "Like love."

"But I don't know love." The only love he knew was the fealty he had been created to pay to the Father--the forced kind of love that demanded itself be given to another.

"You feel it now, don't you? All that you told me...if you truly were seized by lust you'd have acted on it by now—followed the call of your body the way they all do. You want to be by me so badly that it terrified you, enough to try and be away from me. Love is so vast and so beyond the scope of any of us that we can never put it into sufficient words, not even in songs or in written tales. We can only feel it. It's all I've ever wanted to feel—wanted to have someone else feel for me. I truly believed it was only some kind of grand illusion. And then I met you."

Castiel swallowed, his whole being becoming suddenly buoyant.

"I feel it now," Acheron went on; he brought Castiel's hands to his lips, kissing them softly. "I thought that if I found Artemis more...accommodating...that I could forget. That feeling as if you were pulling away wouldn't be hard to bear. But she has no compassion, Castiel. And that's all the difference to me. I've never met anyone who has made my happiness their priority...who has made me feel and think things about myself and the world around me that I've never felt and thought before. _I_ don't even love myself, but you do. You've made me happy, made me feel worthwhile. You gave me my brother..."

Even as the weight of Acheron's words wrapped him round in exquisite warmth, Castiel felt the creeping tendrils of doubt and fear.

"I don't want you to feel obligated," he said. "You don't owe me--

"It's not obligation," Acheron said fiercely. "Trust me, Castiel, if it was, I would have insisted that you fuck me the first night you took this human vessel. It wouldn't be the first time I'd done something out of gratitude. I love you, Castiel. I didn't know how much until Artemis cast me out. I want nothing from you; and I know you want nothing from me but _me_."

He wasn't wicked for feeling and thinking what he felt for Acheron. He wasn't wrong, or succumbing to base lust. It was love, and he felt so blind for not having considered it before. And what was more...Acheron loved him in return.

Castiel stared at Acheron, a million thoughts racing through his mind. Slowly, tentatively, Acheron dipped his head downwards. He was going to kiss him, and the thought was so terrifyingly thrilling that Castiel backed away out of reflex.

"Hush," Acheron whispered, brushing his thumb of Castiel's lips. "Please...let me..."

When Acheron's lips finally touched his, Castiel knew that he would bring Heaven crashing down if necessary to keep this man safe and happy—to hold onto this love as long as he could, no matter what the cost.

Something hard as stone brushed against Castiel’s leg. His eyes fluttered open; when he glanced downwards and saw Acheron’s erection jutting against his thigh, he felt the whole world begin to spin.

Acheron’s lips broke away from Castiel’s. He gasped, eyes heavily lidded. “I’m sorry,” he said, canting his hips away from Castiel’s body. “I’ll never—

Power invaded the room; Castiel reacted on reflex. He seized Acheron by the shoulder pulled him behind him, as if he stood a chance of hiding the other man’s immense height.

There was a tall woman in the middle of the room. Her body was shaped with soft curves and full breasts, covered by a white gown that accentuated her raw, hungry sensuality. Green eyes set into a smooth, soft face, stared at Castiel and Acheron with, first surprise, and then betrayal. Her hair was red as a fire, and as she took a menacing step towards them, Castiel thought that the flame of the woman’s hair was nowhere near as bright as her towering wrath.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out who she was.

Artemis.

“Acheron.” She spoke in a raspy voice that was also somehow petulant; like a spoiled child. “What are you doing?”

Acheron slid his arms around Castiel’s waist. His arousal had diminished, which Castiel was inwardly thankful for.   
  
“I’m not coming with you anymore,” he said. “I’m staying here. We’re done now, Artemis.”

Angry heat rose in the goddesses face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

“I’m not. I choose him. I had him before you took me.” He smoothed his free hand over the imprint Castiel had left on his shoulder. “I hardly see how this matters to you. Being that you hate yourself for allowing a lowly toulus to touch you.”

The beauty in Artemis’s face vanished, replaced by a feral, animalistic anger. Her eyes flashed bright green, and her lips curled, revealing perfect white teeth and…fangs.

She lifted her hand and Acheron rose through the air. He sailed across the room and collided with the opposite wall.

Cold fury erupted from Castiel; his wings burst from his back, solid and corporeal unlike they’d been in his indistinct form. Blood and skin splattered on the walls and floor. Darkness consumed the room, along with a death-like cold. The air around Castiel crackled with intense electricity.

Artemis screamed, backing away from him, her fury and savagery vanishing. Castiel prowled towards her; with a bat of his hand, he sent her sprawling to the ground. Unsatisfied, he lifted his hand, and the goddess rose into the air. Castiel closed his fingers into his palm, and Artemis began to gasp and splutter, her face turning purple.

He did not know where the rage had come from—only that it was dark, and filled him with the same vindictive pleasure he’d experienced when he’d snapped Dionysus’s arm backwards weeks before.

When Castiel spoke, his voice reverberated with the might of a mountain, terrible like the ocean.

“I gave your brother fair warning: if any of you pathetic lesser beings laid a finger on Acheron or his brother, it would be your last. I’ve been just dying to bring you Olympians to heel, and now you've handed me the perfect opportunity.” He squeezed harder and harder, pleasure coursing through him at the sight of Artemis’s eyes bulging.

Yes. He would choke the life from her—leave her nothing but a carcass on the floor. Then he would raze Olympus to the ground, strip the pantheon to its marrow; the reckoning would be perfect and beautiful and…

A hand closed around his wrist.

Acheron stared into his eyes, his gaze level.

“No,” he said. “I won’t let you become a killer over the likes of them. It’s over now, Castiel. Please. Don’t darken yourself for their sake.”

Castiel looked back at the still gasping, struggling, suspended Artemis. He felt that worse things would come if he left her alive—and yet, he couldn’t hurt Acheron by doing something so brutal.

He relinquished his grasp. The room returned to its original light, slightly cool temperature.

Artemis coughed, glaring at Castiel and Acheron through the tangles of her ruby hair. Castiel held her gaze, not at all afraid by the venom there. He may have pushed Acheron into her arms, but after today—after what they’d finally revealed to each other, he wasn’t about to go back. Not for her, not for the other Olympians, or Ryssa or even Michael.

With a scream of fury, Artemis disappeared.

Acheron sighed, his arms curling around Castiel’s waist. Castiel shivered, feeling Acheron’s lips press against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Although I think she’s going to be a little bit pissed. She looked angry enough to cut off my cock.”

Castiel sighed. “All the more reason for us to not be here any longer.” He tilted his head backwards, the better to look into Acheron’s eyes. “Are you willing to leave today? In spite of the baby and all this…would you fly with me and your brother if I asked it of you?”

In answer, Acheron kissed Castiel, long but softly. Heat coursed throughout Castiel’s body, making him momentarily lose track of his surroundings, his plan…anything other than the feel and scent and taste of Acheron.

“I’ll do anything you say,” Acheron whispered when they at last broke apart. “As long as you’re there.”


	15. Chapter 15

“I still don’t see why I have to be live fucking bait.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and spoke into his cell phone. “Because the Spathi isn’t after Charlie—it’s after you and Sam. As Sam is sleeping off his intoxication, it’s down to you to draw the Spathi out. Now stop talking about it and try and look more convincingly drunk.”

Standing on the third floor balcony of an all night café, Castiel looked out over the bustling streets of the French Quarter. Even this late at night, the neighborhood was as lively as an agitated beehive; groups of after-dark diners went from restaurant to restaurant, some laughing and falling over themselves. Loud music of all genres blared from every bar and dive on the street, their neon signs and welcoming lights making the byway look as bright as early evening. It wasn’t Mardi Gras, but in this part of The Big Easy, it didn’t have to be.

The herds of people were all the better for their purpose. They needed to draw the Spathi out, and to do so they needed it to think that Dean was just going for a nighttime tour of the French Quarter. In any case, the demon wouldn’t think about dashing the sanctity of the masquerade by attacking Dean out in the open; Stryker and Apollymi wouldn’t like that, after all.

Still, with Sam out of commission and Acheron even more so, Cas couldn’t help but worry that something was going to go wrong.

“It’s behind the strip club, right?” Dean was making his way down the street, leather jacket zipped up against the cool night air. He had his cellphone against his ear and was doing his best to look as if he were having a nonchalant conversation with a friend.

“Yes. _Cherry Pit_ , a block or so down and around the corner.”

“An ambush at a strip club. Was that intentional?”

“Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

“Yeah, actually it would.”

Castiel could just see Dean’s face become drawn with returning frustration. As much as he said he’d been able to handle all the information that he, Acheron and Simi had dropped, Dean was only human. He’d lived so long with a set notion of what his world was that to have it broken down wasn’t something he’d be liable to get over quickly.

“Dean, listen…I know this hasn’t been easy to digest but—

Castiel felt the Spathi’s presence in the crowd before he saw it. He receded into the shadows of the balcony and looked out into the mass of people on the street below. Dean was making his way towards the intersection where the strip club was located, completely oblivious to the devastatingly beautiful, tall, blonde figure not fifteen feet behind him.

“On your six. See you there in a minute.” Castiel said. He noticed Dean grin and then say into his phone, “Thanks baby, love you too.”

Smirking, Castiel teleported from the balcony; a moment later he re-appeared in the cramped, dark square back courtyard behind the _Cherry Pit_. He could still hear the buzz of the crowd on the street beyond, only now it was buried beneath the thumping strains of “I’m Only Happy When it Rains” coming from within the club behind.

Footsteps approached from the nearby alley. Biting his lip, Castiel stepped into the shadows, wishing that invisibility and power cloaking hadn’t been stripped from him after he’d Fallen; at that moment, he wished that their plan wasn’t flimsy. It counted on too many variables—the Spathi taking the bait, Dean being quick on his feet, and Charlie coming through in the end.

Castiel almost prayed as he waited. Dean’s footsteps were drawing closer; the Spathi was following him, the acrid presence of it moving like a thick cloud of smoke toward the back entrance of the strip club.

Dean rounded the corner, whistling along with the music. Castiel watched as Dean, feigning drunkness, staggered towards one of the brick walls and unzipped his fly.

The Spathi moved like a living shadow, silent despite its height and build. It smirked when it saw Dean pretending to take a leak against the brick wall. Then, just as it moved from the shadows of the alley into the back square, it disappeared.

Castiel felt its power behind him a moment too late. The brute seized him by the throat and pressed a cold silver blade of steel against his neck. Castiel grimaced, elbowed the prick in the ribs as hard as he could; he felt the sting of the knife slice into his skin, but it was only a glancing blow.

Using the Spathi’s momentary pain as leverage, Castiel seized it by the wrist holding the knife. With a snap, he bent the demon’s hand backwards.

Cursing, the Spathi staggered away. Castiel backed off towards the center of the alley square.

“God damn it,” Dean said as he hurried to Castiel’s side. “You mean our paper thin plan went off the rails?”

The Spathi snarled, its eyes flashing a violent yellow. It snapped its wrist back into position and then charged from the shadows.

A streak of red hair and dark leather jacket burst from behind a rusty garbage dumpster. Charlie was small, but fast and completely unexpected. She tackled the Spathi to the ground. Before the bastard could comprehend being hit by five-foot-four inches of badass geek, Charlie sank an iron blade into its chest.

The Spathi screamed in rage and kicked Charlie backwards. Charlie rolled with the blow and landed splayed on the ground several feet away from the felled demon.

“Stupid bitch,” it snarled as it yanked the eight-inch blade from its chest and got to its feet. “Knives can’t kill me.”

“No,” Charlie said through her panting breaths, “but this sure as hell can hold you in place.” She pulled a silver Zippo lighter from the pocket of her jacket, lit a spark and dropped it the ground.

White fire scorched into the arched pattern of a circle and star on the ground; sparks jumped to the Enochian words etched around the circle. Four-foot tall flames bound the Spathi. The demon let out a laugh and attempted to charge at Charlie, Cas and Dean. The second it reached the perimeter of the flames, it was catapulted backwards through the air and fell in a heap in the middle of the Devil’s trap.

“Hey Dean,” Charlie said conversationally. “What’s that saying they have about silly rabbits and tricks?”

Dean smirked. “Gee, I don’t remember. It’s either that they’re for kids, or dumbfuck spaghetti demons.”

“Spathi,” Castiel corrected. “Not that it matters much.”

“Let me out!” The Spathi roared.

“Sure,” Cas said as he slowly circled the fiery Devil’s trap. “Except there’s one problem: we don’t have the keys for the cage. But that’s okay. Our friend here does.”

Out of the shadows, quite literally, Fang Kattalakis emerged, his eyes blazing. Cas saw the bravado in the Spathi’s eyes fade at the sight of his Hellchaser nemesis.

“Hey Dean,” Charlie said once more. “What’s that saying about the more we get together?”

“The more demon assholes we send to Hell.” Dean finished.

Fang strode through the flames as if they were nothing more than water. The Spathi reached for some kind of weapon, but it was too late. Fang seized it by the throat and crushed its windpipe. The Spathi dissolved into a cloud of black and red smoke; Fang procured a small, opalescent orb from the air; the smoke was sucked into the sphere as if by vacuum power.

Turning to Cas, Dean and Charlie, Fang said, his rough timbre going into a rather amusing sing-song, “ ‘Cause your friends are my friends and my friends are your friends.”

“The more we get together, the happier we’ll be,” Charlie finished with a smirk to rival Fang’s.

The Katagaria chuckled. “You have my thanks for this. And Castiel, I’ll make good on my promise just as soon as I bring this piece of shit to Thorn.” Fang stepped from the flames and walked into the shadows. Castiel waved his hand, and the fiery licking at the Devil’s trap disappeared.

Dean glanced at Cas. “What did he mean by your promise?”

“He’s going to reunite me with an old friend,” Cas replied. The flames around the Devil’s trap burned to embers. Anyone who chanced upon the alley courtyard behind the Cherry Pit would simply think that someone had been doing some interesting graffiti. They were, for all intents and purposes, out of the woods in terms of the hunt for the Spathi. Now all he could do was hope that he’d be able to say the same for Acheron.

He took Dean and Charlie by the hand and teleported them back to Sanctuary. The band had stopped playing, but Aimee wouldn’t be making last call for another hour at least. Simi, chatting with her friends Amanda and Tabitha, gave Castiel a worried look as he left Dean and Charlie by the bar. He nodded in return, then headed right to the stairs.

Sanctuary, as a bastion for shifters of all kinds, had rooms from the second floor up designed to not only house the Peltier family and their loved ones, but any Katagaria or Arcadian in need of a place to lay low.

Castiel followed the second floor hallway to the very end. He could feel the power of all the shifters already retired to the rooms for the night—the jungle fury of the Panthiras and Balios—the big cats; and the polar strength of the Ursulan bears and the Lykos wolves. And there, at the very end, was the ancient heat of the Drakos, the dragons. Powerful and brimming with fire, the energy wasn’t enough to hide Acheron’s signature.

Quickly and quietly, Castiel waved his hand over the door to the room Acheron had been given; the magical locks and wards disappeared for a moment, granting him access to the big room with the solid iron walls and the lavish fur carpeting. He felt a ripple in the air behind him as the seals bound the room closed once more.

The room was immense, far more so than the outside of Sanctuary betrayed it as being. A low fire burned in a medieval hearth at one end of the room, lighting tapestries along the walls and the polished wood of the few pieces of furniture that were not burned or shredded. In the middle of the vast space was something like a bed, only it was at least three four times the size of the average California king-size mattress—a nest, with fine blankets and furs and sheets and pillows piled around for comfort.

Curled in the very middle of the dragon’s nest was Acheron—he looked, for once, smaller than his surroundings, no easy feat given his height. Glowing firelight danced against his skin—he was naked, his body shining with sweat from the force of his hunger.

Castiel approached the edge of the dragon’s nest; Acheron froze and then slowly uncoiled like a king cobra. He rose, standing among the blankets and pillows, his shoulders and chest heaving with his laborious breaths.

Cas froze.

Acheron’s eyes were red as blood, glowing brighter than the fire behind him. He held Cas with a gaze that wasn’t hungry so much as it was ravenous. A primal fear made Castiel want to do nothing more than turn tail and flee from the room—but this was Acheron—his Acheron. And although the sight of him so poised on the brink of lethal hunger was nothing short of terrifying, it also broke Castiel’s heart.

Ash needed his help, not his fear.

Moving as slowly as he dared, Cas stepped over the edge of the nest, never breaking eye contact with Acheron. Ash’s muscles tenses, and he followed Castiel with his crimson gaze. 

“Acheron.” Cas’s voice was a plaintive whisper in the silence; Ash growled as if the sound of his name was a challenge. “Just breathe, Acheron. I know how hungry you are; I understand that you want to feed…” He needed to calm Acheron, to lull him long enough to reach out and touch him—to make him see past his starvation.

Acheron growled, the sound resonating around the room. Castiel did not waver in his steps as he crossed the too-soft field of bedding to the man that he loved.

Slowly, Castiel stretched forth his hand. He could practically feel the heat and the ravenous rage emanating from Acheron’s naked, sweat-covered body.

When at last he made contact, he felt a tremor of something like dread course through him. Before he could register its origin—before he could do so much as breathe, Acheron grabbed his wrist in a grip like steel, and pulled Castiel flush with his body. Cas gasped at the hot feeling of Ash’s feverish skin—at the sound of his breath, rumbling like some immense beast in his chest.

His eyes widened, and he stared at Acheron, lips parted in a silent cry of pain as Ash continued to squeeze Cas’s wrist.

“Ash…please…”

“Hungry,” Acheron growled. He raked Castiel’s body with that red-eyed, crazed look. His gaze zeroed in on the small nick in Cas’s neck where the Spathi had tried to slide his blade.

Ash shoved Castiel to the ground with all his might. Before Cas could move or think to teleport, he felt the hot weight of Acheron’s body cover his—felt those ragged breaths against his ear.

He knew what was going to happen a moment before it did; he felt stupid for not seeing this before—for not understanding that carefully laid trap that Artemis had laid out in denying Acheron her blood.

Of course it wouldn’t be enough for her to be rid of him—she wanted to hurt Acheron, had always wanted to hurt him. And what better way was there to cause him pain than to have him gorge himself on the blood of the only person he loved?

When Acheron finally sunk his fangs into the flesh of Castiel’s throat, it was with a savage strength that sent white-hot pain throughout the angel’s body. Acheron’s fangs tore through his skin, shredding his windpipe, raking from almost one side of his throat to the other. He was gorging himself after his weeklong starvation.

Castiel felt himself fall—the already dim room grew all the more dark. He stared at the ceiling, feeling Acheron feast on his blood, feeling the pressure of his body weighing him down.

As his strength faded and tears filled his eyes, he slid one limp hand up Acheron’s back, holding him close…egging him on...encouraging him to drink.

Castiel had died several times before, and it had never been as prolonged as this—never been as tragic. He felt as if the surface beneath him had slipped away, leaving him at the mercy of a great empty chasm. But he wouldn’t fight it, wouldn’t allow himself to feel the despair or the anger at Artemis having proven victorious in the end.

What better way was there to die, after all, than to give his life to sustain that of the man he loved?

The room slipped away; Castiel allowed himself to fall through the infinite blackness. He wanted to hold onto Acheron with all his might, to keep everything that he was—the memories and emotions and the physicality of him—hold tightly as he could. 

But Death, he knew, won out in the end, no matter how much he wanted to avoid it—no matter how many things there were to live for and to love.

The darkness was absolute, all consuming—but Castiel soon realized that it was only so because his eyes were closed. The sensation of his body falling through nothingness was likewise gone—there was something simultaneously soft but also coarse beneath his body; he could hear the soft rush of a tide ebbing somewhere near his right side; a gentle, warm breeze caressed his bare skin.

Castiel opened his eyes, and found himself starring up at a sky tinged with the pale violet and deep blue of dusk. Stars shone in abundance, obscured here and there by the odd purple cloud rolling lazily across the horizon. Turning his head to the side, Castiel saw the he was lying abreast of an endless expanse of ocean; cool water ebbed against the sand below his body, sea-foam forming at points along the shoreline.

He sat up, and found that he was dressed in a pair of navy blue floral swimming trunks and nothing more. He felt his throat; there was no gaping hole or blood or any injury to speak of.

Getting to his feet, he stared around. Behind him were rolling green mountains of tropical trees; majestic craggy peaks and lush jungle spread along the foothills and mountainsides. Palm trees grew in regal clusters along the beach.

Castiel heard the sound of something swaying in the gentle breeze, something that seemed to be coming from behind the nearest grove of palm trees. He walked along the soft sand, feeling the thick, squishy texture of it between his toes.

He approached the grove, and then stopped dead, his lips parted in complete and utter shock.

A man, as tall and strong as Acheron, was stretched out lazily on a white hammock that hung between two trees. One powerful leg dangled over the side of the hammock. Polynesian tattoos stretched over his tan skin, some of animals and sea life, others of nature and the elements: one immense tattoo of a snake coiled from his ankle and disappeared below the leg of his pale pink swimming trunks.

Castiel couldn’t move, couldn’t speak or even think. He knew where he was—knew the man still swinging lazily on the hammock before him. What he didn’t understand was why he was here, or how he’d been brought here when he’d been on the brink of death.

The lolled his head to the side. His hair was dark as volcanic ash, long and curled gently to the nape of his neck.

He opened his eyes—eyes that were sad and haunted but startlingly beautiful in that they were the softest shade of lavender.

“Aloha, cowboy,” Savitar said, smiling languidly at the disbelief on Castiel’s face.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little lazy to pull out the same ploy that Artemis used on Tory in Ash's book. But it worked well enough to get me into hysterics the first time I read it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	16. Chapter 16

Heaven had descended to Earth--at least that was what the sight of the gently falling snow had made Castiel think of whenever he saw it. Surrounded by tall, majestic pines with their branches blanketed in thick mounds of virgin snowfall, Castiel felt, not for the first time in recent months, complete contentment.  

He'd brought Styxx and Acheron to a far reach of the world--to the same plains and rivers where they'd sought peace and solitude in those distant days at Didymos. With what supplies Styxx had collected, they’d managed to carve out a living among the quiet, watchful woods. Castiel wasn’t at all sure how much time had passed since he’d taken the princely brothers from their palace prison—certainly the seasons passed with far more drastic notice in this part of the world. Summer had been hot but stormy, and had turned over to a cool, crisp, autumn. The sights of that autumn—gold and red and brown—had filled the outsiders three with wonder; neither Acheron nor Styxx had seen an autumn like it, and Castiel certainly hadn’t it.

But it was the winter that mesmerized him the most. He’d seen snow when Lucifer had shown him the world, but to see it falling from the sky—to be among the tall, cold, crisp white mounds as they buried the grass and rocks in a silent shroud of pearly beauty—was truly a majestic sight.

Castiel’s fur-lined boots crunched through a newly fallen layer of snow. It was some time before sunset, although the sky was blanketed with clouds and the snow made all and everything seem darker. He’d hiked through these woods many a time over the last several months, and he never failed to find something new—whether it was a differing bend in the path or some new animal den, he was always amazed by the serenity of nature.

True peace.

He realized, as he came to a small clearing, that he’d finally come to understand the kind of peace he’d always wanted for Acheron and Styxx. Throughout the changing of the seasons, they’d explored the wilderness, hunted and constructed a home for the three of them. They’d met with the nearest tribes who, while having been drawn by Acheron’s eyes just as the people in Didymos had, seemed to understand that there was something more to the strangers in their lands.

“Their lands,” Styxx never failed to remind Castiel and Acheron. “We came here. This all belonged to them, and they’re merely letting us stay.”

Not only had the tribes let them stay, they’d taught them to fish properly—to hunt the wild deer and great, hairy bison; to stitch their clothes into things that could last the bitter cold of autumn and winter.

Castiel looked up at the pale gray-violet of the clouded sky. He breathed in the sharp smell of the snow and the fragrant earthiness of the woods.

What need had he for Heaven when he was here? What need had anyone for Heaven when such majesty could be found on Earth, if only one knew where to look?

He stood still in the clearing, face upturned, letting the cold, wet snow fall on his bare face. The skins and furs that he, Styxx, and Acheron had stitched together over the fall provided sufficient warmth to protect from the cold. He’d been walking for time out of mind—dark was fast approaching, but he would be sure to return to their little home before it was too dangerous to be out in the woods.

At that moment he felt the peace shatter by the unmistakable vibration of a presence approaching swiftly from the east. He started, and whirled around just in time to see what looked like an enormous, silvery-black bear on its hind legs charge towards him. Castiel scarcely had time to gasp before the creature was on him, tackling him to the snow-covered ground.

Whatever fear that would have risen in his chest had it been a real woodland creature disappeared the second he realized what it was that had run into him.

Acheron, his covered hands braced either side of Castiel’s face, laughed uproariously. The furs he’d elected to make for himself were from the dark skins of an enormous bear that had wandered through their camp towards the end of summer. The big brute had been almost taller than Acheron, and it was Acheron who had wrestled and killed the thing when it hadn’t moved off. The silky dark furs made Acheron look like a positive beast of the wild, although given his height and width, it was impossible for any kind of fur to not have that affect.

Feeling the snow start to seep through his own bison furs, Castiel stared into Acheron’s smiling face.

“Have you completely lost your senses?” He said, not at all meaning the weight of his words. He would have to have been mad to dislike the feeling of Acheron’s warm body atop his, even with the cold snow beneath him.

Acheron smirked, looking every bit like a reckless youth. “Not at all. I know where they are, I just choose not to use them.” Before Castiel could draw breath to respond, Acheron kissed him, his lips warm and needful and demanding.

This was one of the things that had changed the most significantly since leaving Didymos, at least in Castiel’s mind. Where before he had longed for this kind of nearness, and cherished every slight look and accidental touch, those old boundaries had all but disappeared. Not a day had gone by since they’d come to this strange, wonderful land where Acheron wasn’t touching Castiel or kissing him; at times the touches were simple—a brushing of hands or a soft nudge. At other times there was this desperate clash of bodies—all heat and hard muscle.

Acheron’s kiss never failed to make Castiel feel as if he were floating through some infinite space. He felt warm, secure—loved. All fear disappeared in that space, leaving room for the wonderful possibility of what he felt for the man who’d taken him from Heaven and changed his life.

He groaned into Acheron’s mouth; grasped the back of his furs and pulled him as close as he could. Castiel felt the weight of Acheron’s hardness through his animal skins; his heart beat a rapid rhythm against his ribs; his face flushed red as an apple.

Without thinking, he parted his legs. Acheron tore his lips from Castiel’s eyes, his eyes bright as the snow that fell around them and filled with a hungry longing.

“Not out here,” Acheron breathed, his voice ragged. “I wouldn’t take you out in the woods like you were an animal for your first time.”

“But where would you if you could?”

Acheron smiled, and pressed his warm lips to Castiel’s throat. “Somewhere warm. Somewhere luxurious. Somewhere my brother isn’t sleeping six feet away from us.”

Castiel laughed, massaging circles into Acheron’s back. "I'd gladly accept it anywhere, if only you were willing."

He’d never dreamed he’d see the day when he would crave this kind of carnal thing—when he would be disappointed that Acheron was too noble to resort to rutting in the snow like beasts. But he loved Acheron, and sometimes the feeling was so that he didn’t know whether to laugh with joy or cower in terror at the might of it.

Acheron got to his feet with a sigh, and helped Castiel stand.

“Styxx has his catch on the fire,” he said as they crunched across the snow. “He almost fell through the ice getting it too, so best tell him how delicious it is…even if it does taste like tree bark again.”

“He’s not hurt is he?”

“No. Just chilled to the balls, I imagine. I was able to get him before the water went past his waist.”

They had only a little way to go before Castiel smelled the pleasant aroma of wood-burning smoke and baking fish. And when he and Acheron rounded yet another bend in their path, the comfortable sight of the home they’d known for the last who only knew how long spread before them like an unfolding dream.

Their home, like those of the tribes living in the adjacent plains, was made of stretch and sun tanned animal skin; Styxx, Castiel and Acheron had worked diligently, learning from the friends they’d made among the plainspeople just how to properly stitch and stretch the skins. Wound around bent branches and bones, their dwelling was low, but long, with a space in the center of the ceiling for wood smoke to filter through. It was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and it was the first and greatest home Castiel had ever known.

Keeping close to each other’s side, Castiel and Acheron walked the remainder of the way to their dwelling; Acheron unthreaded the immense bison bone used to keep the front flap closed and ushered Castiel inside.

All was shadows and firelight within the dwelling. The whole place smelled of spiced fish and burning wood. Animal skins of all kinds littered the floor; fashioned hunting weapons and cooking instruments were strung up from animal sinew.

Styxx stood before a merrily crackling fire underneath the gap in the ceiling. His furs were all silvers and blacks, skinned from wildcats—the shades made him look strong as a mountain.

He turned to face Acheron and Castiel as they entered, his beard full and wild. Since arriving in their new home, the spell of the wilderness had woven around him; he hunted the most, skinned the most and seemed to understand their surroundings the most. It was such a stark contrast to the proud princely mantle he’d worn.

“You’re both fortunate that I didn’t have to go out there and look for you,” Styxx said. “If I’d had to get frost on my balls wading through the snow, you’d both be sleeping outside for the rest of the winter.”

“Not as though you’re using them for anything,” Acheron countered. He inhaled deeply and added, “That smells better than ambrosia.”

“It ought to; it’s been roasting long enough. Come on, before it turns to ashes. I’ve worked to hard on the spoils of my efforts to have them go to waste.”

Home.

It was a concept that Castiel had never understood. When he’d been in Heaven, he’d simply been—he hadn’t lived, hadn’t felt, hadn’t experienced a damn thing until Acheron’s soul had screamed for him. He hadn’t thought of Heaven as his home because he hadn’t known the notion of something so comfortable—a place where he felt he belonged. Here, in this simple hut with its trappings and animal pelts and wood smoke, he felt as if he fit perfectly into a fraction of the massive universe. And Acheron and Styxx were the two pieces that completed that fragment of tapestry.

They ate and talked, Acheron sitting with his legs around Castiel, who was pulled almost flush to his lap. Styxx, opposite the fire, was practically dead on his backside after his day of fishing and fighting with frigid water. But he’d never complain; he hadn’t since they’d come here, no matter how hard things had gotten.

Castiel wondered then just how long it had been since they’d left Didymos behind. All the trauma and pain and suffering seemed like a dream, at least to him. He couldn’t quite speak for Styxx or Acheron, although the pain and torment that had used to emanate from them like a vapor before was now barely tangible even to Castiel’s senses.

He stared into the fire as it burned lower and lower, his belly full of the fragrant fish.

“You’re falling asleep, angel,” Acheron murmured into his ear. The nearness of him, the warmth of his breath, made Castiel shiver.

Styxx, watching his brother and Castiel, stretched and stifled a yawn. “One thing I’ll give this abysmal cold weather—longer nights means more time to sleep. Come. I’ll stamp out the fire.”

Their sleeping cots were set towards the rear of their dwelling, the better to keep away from the cold near the front flap. Comrpises of animal skins over grasses and thick, plush furs, the beds weren’t nearly as comfortable as those that Styxx and Acheron had slept on in Didymos. But, as both brothers had said time and time again, the comfort of those beds came at the price of the horrors and indignities suffered there.

Castiel would have slept on a sheet of ice, so long as Acheron was by him.

The time had long past for him to be prudish or embarrassed by nudity, least of all Acheron’s. As they stripped off their skins and furs, Castiel glanced at Acheron’s body, the warmth spreading through his own limbs almost making him topple to the ground. Yet it wasn’t enough to abate the air in their dwelling—though the fire and the skins kept heat trapped inside, the chill air still crept in through the gap in the ceiling.

Acheron held their blankets back, and waited as he always did, for Castiel to crawl under them. Then, just as Styxx snuffed out the fire, he slipped beside Castiel and curled one strong around his body.

The first time they’d slept this way had been almost agonizingly perfect. Skin flush with warm skin; the stable strength of Acheron’s chest and arms…nothing Castiel had ever known compared to the feeling, and it was no different now. He felt himself slipping into the recesses of sleep, his thoughts and fears setting sail across an ocean of meaningless nothing.

What seemed moments later, he heard Acheron whisper his name.

“Wha?” Castiel stirred, looking around the darkened hut. He could hear Styxx’s snores from several feet off, but nothing seemed out of place.

“Shh.” Acheron pressed his lips against Castiel’s ear; one long-fingered, strong hand stroked a soothing line up and down Castiel’s side. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Is something the matter?”

In the darkness of their home, Acheron’s silver-white eyes glowed like earthbound starlight. “Nothing,” he said softly. He continued to stare at Castiel as he stroked the length of his skin. “I was just wondering something, is all.”

“What?”

“Did you mean what you said earlier? About making love? Do you really want to?”

Heat blistered Castiel’s face. The proximity of Acheron’s naked body to his made him feel the most uncomfortable combination of need and panic. A feeling in his groin, one that he’d become familiar with over the last several months, made him want to both flee from the hut and also press himself as close to Acheron as he possibly could.

Yet what harm was there in getting what he wanted? In what they both wanted? He loved Acheron, knew that more than he knew his own name at this point. And Acheron wanted to do this for him—he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t feel it within him to do so.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off of Acheron’s, Castiel nodded. 

“I do,” he whispered. “Acheron, I want it so much…to feel that connected with you…”

He couldn’t see Acheron’s face completely, but he felt the joy radiating off of him like heat.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am that we’re here,” Acheron said softly. “All three of us, yes, but you and I…together like this…feeling you naked with me...your skin against mine…it’s greater than anything I’ve ever known.” He pressed a soft kiss to Castiel’s lips. “Tomorrow, when Styxx leaves to gather kindling…I want to show you how much I love you, Castiel. Will you let me?”

Feeling as if he could fly, Castiel smiled, kissed Acheron, and nodded—he couldn’t speak; he was too overcome with that wild, sailing sense of sheer and utter devotion. 

Styxx didn’t appear at all surprised upon being told by Acheron to investigate a clearing farther away from their home than was usual. He glanced almost knowingly at Castiel, who tried and failed not to look guilty of anything other than clearing away the remains of their breakfast.

“And what is wrong with the kindling in the woods near here?” Styxx said with a small grin as he laced his fur-lined boots. “Not _hard_ enough for you, adelfos?”

“Not entirely. Unless you want to stay here and bare witness to further trauma, I suggest you head out.”

Styxx smirked at his brother and the still scarlet-faced Castiel, but made no comment as he collected a stout walking stick and a sharp blade from the stand by the front flap.

“I’ll try to go the long way,” he said. “There are many unexplored channels around these parts, as I’m sure Castiel is about to find out.”

“Lout!” Acheron called after his brother. Castiel heard a muffled, “Whore!” issued in response as Styxx headed out into the calm, snowy morning.

They were alone together at last, and Castiel was filled with a thrill of longing and an almost blinding terror. He had no idea what could happen—he knew the mechanics of it, of course, but there was only so much bearing witness could teach a person.

His legs felt weak as Acheron slowly closed the space between them.

Gently, Acheron took Castiel’s chin between his forefinger and thumb. He stared into Castiel’s eyes, his gaze bright and white as paradise itself. 

When the heat of Acheron’s lips touched his, Castiel abandoned all thought of worry for what would happen. Acheron could rend him limb from limb, throws his remains to the winds and Castiel would accept it gladly—if only it was Acheron doing it. He moaned into the warm confines of Acheron’s mouth, and gripped him by the front of his furs. He craved the closeness, craved the touch and the feel of Acheron’s skin…

His senses exploded with the presence of something other—something a tier above man but below angels. He heard Styxx let out a bellow of rage a moment later.

Acheron let go of Castiel, his eyes wide with confusion. Without a word, both he and Castiel hurried from the hut, Acheron retrieving a sharp axe that he’d fashioned after the ones used by their friends among the tribe.

Castiel skidded to a halt in the snow, staring in disbelief at the strange sight before him. Styxx was swinging his own blunt axe at the nearly naked adolescent boy hanging from the bough of the nearest snow-covered tree. Only the boy wasn’t hanging—upon closer inspection, Castiel saw that he was flying, a pair of winged sandals fluttering in mortal dread as Styxx tried with all his force to skewer the youth.

“Hermes,” Acheron spat. “How the fuck did one of the Olympians find us here?”

Castiel felt that old cloud—the one he hadn’t felt since the day they’d left Didymos—steal over him as he followed Acheron to the spot where Styxx was holding Hermes at bay. Before he could stop himself, he held a hand out; Hermes stilled, his entire body going rigid.

“You have ten seconds,” Acheron said darkly, “to start talking. We’ve all got a pretty good vantage point on your tender bits from down here; I don’t think you want to risk getting your recently dropped balls chopped off, do you Hermes?”

The god didn’t speak; he couldn’t, given Castiel’s heavenly grip on his body.

Styxx, still with his spear trained on Hermes, said, “Give him use of his mouth, Castiel. He can’t hurt any of us with that…physically at least.”

“He better mind his tongue,” Castiel said darkly. “I’m apt to tear it out at the seam if the mood strikes me.” He loosened his grasp on Hermes, but only just enough to give the young god use of his voice.

“What the fuck is with the cold?” Hermes gasped. “You three really chose a place to hide.”

“We aren’t hiding,” Acheron said. “And you now have five seconds.”

“I don’t want any trouble—

“Four…

“Hey now, don’t shoot the messenger!”

“Three…”

“Your sister had her baby!” Hermes yelped, his voice cracking pathetically in accordance with his disturbingly pubescent appearance. “I’m not here on behalf of anyone aside from her! She had a beautiful baby boy and she wants very much for him to know his uncles.”

Styxx and Acheron glanced sidelong at one another. Castiel, his eyes fixed on Hermes the way he’d often regarded the black winged beetle that scuttled up pine trees in the summer, wanted nothing more than to crush the god’s windpipe. Not that he doubted the words brought by the messenger of the gods—it was simply that he was furious for him playing the hand of Ryssa and her new born child.

Silence filled the winter morning. Acheron looked from his brother to Castiel, and then finally back at Hermes.

“Get out of here,” he said. “And for your sake, you best not tell anyone where we are.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. He applied just the smallest bit of pressure to Hermes’ windpipe. “Artemis and Dionysus can tell you all about how pleasant I am whenever I encounter one of your kind.”

Hermes coughed, still suspended in midair. “But the princess…what should I—

“Tell her to wait.” Styxx said. “If we wish to see the baby, then Castiel here will take us to Didymos.” He slowly approached Hermes and pressed the blade of his spear against the young god’s side. “Go.”

Hermes gulped and, a moment later, Castiel found himself grasping thin air.

Styxx stood stock still, staring at the spot where the Olympian had vanished.

Acheron let out a snarl of rage and flung his axe into the nearest tree. Without another word, he walked back to their shelter, his shoulders set grimly, all thought of what he’d been about to do with Castiel completely forgotten.

* * *

 

It didn’t take at all long for Acheron and Styxx to decide that they would, in fact, visit Ryssa and her baby. Before the sun set on that crisp, snowy day, the two brothers had determined that they owed it to their sister to see her under the circumstances.

“But only briefly,” Styxx said—and it was a mantra he repeated over and over again until he finally crawled beneath his covers.

Even with this and other such assertions, Castiel felt a horrible cloud of dread over him. It was the most unpleasant feeling—this watching, waiting, ever present sense that something devastatingly wrong would come of this. His skin crawled at the unshakeable thought and feeling; he huddled as close to Acheron as he could that evening beneath their blankets, fearing that the man he loved would go flying off into the night sky if he let go.

“It’s going to be fine,” Acheron whispered, brushing a kiss over Castiel’s lips. “We won’t be with her or the baby for longer than an hour at the most.”

“I know.” Castiel tried to keep his voice even—tried not to betray that ungodly fear that had gripped him since that afternoon’s encounter with Hermes.

Acheron held him close. “We _are_ coming back,” he said firmly. “This is our home, Castiel. Styxx and I are already anticipating Ryssa’s attempts at coercing us to stay, but we won’t. And nothing is going to hurt us, as long as you’re there.”

“Right.” Castiel tucked his head under Acheron’s chin. The embers in the fire pit burned into smoldering, glowing coals. Soon the only sound in the hut was Acheron and Styxx’s stifled snores as they slept; but slumber did not come at all to Castiel. He lay awake all the night long, still feeling that palpable dread in spite of the security of Acheron’s arms around him.

Morning came too soon for his liking. Styxx and Acheron rose, breakfasted and dressed. Castiel, still feeling as if he were being observed from a great distance by something with a malevolent, hateful stare, went about their hut, touching things and fixing things that did not need fixing. He felt as if he were trying to remember this place—this peaceful home that he and the brothers had known all these seasons.

It was ridiculous. He had no reason, aside from this insinuating terror, to believe that he, Acheron and Styxx wouldn’t return here in a few short hours. And yet, the brothers gathered round him in readiness for the quick teleportation to Didymos, Castiel felt his heart shattering into a thousand pieces—a sense of homesickness so profound overwhelming him that, for a moment, he could not muster up the angelic strength to even shimmer away from the hut.

Acheron squeezed his hand. “Hey. Right back here, remember? Back home after a little bit.”

Castiel nodded, forced himself to look past the vice of dread, and extended his power.

Cold air changed to heat; silence to the uproar of crowds at some distance; the bare earth that had made the floor of their dwelling was replaced by smooth stone.

They were in Styxx’s old bedroom, the last place that they’d been when Castiel had taken the brothers from Didymos. All was as it had been, despite so many months having gone by since: the bed just as tall and grand, the furnishings just as opulent. Only the hearth looked as if it hadn’t seen a fire in ages, and there was a full layer of dust over the blankets and cushions.

Styxx scoffed. “I never thought it would be possible to despise a place more than this.”

Acheron tugged at the furs he still wore. “I’m going to baste by the time we leave.”

“Shall we?” Castiel started for the door, a little too earnestly to appear perfectly at ease. From the corner of his eye, he saw Acheron and Styxx glance at one another, then shrug and follow suit.

Cloaking himself in invisibility, Castiel let the two royal brothers lead the way through the corridors of the castle. Servants stopped and stared, many of them backing away at the sight of the two hulking men in the skins and furs of animals. Neither Acheron nor Styxx paid them any heed. They marched with purpose, something Castiel felt inwardly grateful for—he already hated being here in Didymos, with its sticky, oppressive heat and the leering, curious people.

He wanted to go home, and the sooner Acheron and Styxx attended to Ryssa and her baby, the sooner they could leave.

The guards standing at the door to Ryssa’s chambers drew their swords when Styxx and Acheron approached. Acheron raised his eyebrows in interest; Styxx looked merely bored.

“We’re here for our sister at the request of both her and the gods,” Styxx said. “I may not be a prince any longer, but I am still Princess Ryssa’s brother; so is he.” He indicated Acheron with a polite nod of his head.

Based on the mulish looks on the faces of the guards, Castiel supposed they would be very lucky indeed to enter the chambers. Before it came to blows of any kind, a voice from behind the doors called out, “Was that Styxx? I hear his voice. Styxx! Come in, please!”

Styxx grinned at the guards behind his wild tangle of beard. The guards glowered at him, but let him pass. One of them raked Acheron with a look of sheer repugnance. Castiel forced himself to retain his rage—he couldn’t risk drawing unwanted attention.

 _It’s only for a small while_ , he thought.

Ryssa’s chamber was filled with finery and light. She was propped up on several pillows in her grand bed, a baby swaddled in her arms. And there, standing next to her, was an impossibly handsome man with hair as gold as candle flame. The power radiating from the man nearly made Castiel gasp—he was one of the Olympians, and based on the pride in his eyes as he looked at the baby Ryssa held, he was none other than Apollo.

Apollo’s entire body tensed when he saw Styxx and Acheron approached; he cast a look of pure loathing Acheron’s way, and then swiftly appraised Styxx; Castiel got the sense that the god was somehow amused by the wild appearance of the two brothers.

“Acheron!” Ryssa gasped. “Styxx! Oh, I’m so happy! I wasn’t sure if Hermes would be able to find you.”

“Hermes can span the globe, my love,” Apollo said, his voice like the sound of a lute being plucked at. “There’s not a place he can’t discover…or a thing.” His bright blue eyes pierced the spot where Castiel stood. “What is he doing here? This is a reunion for family only.”

Ryssa looked confused; Acheron and Styxx stared at Castiel.

“I may not be able to see you,” Apollo said, “but I can feel you. And after what you did to my sister and my brothers, you’ll pardon me not wanting you anywhere near my son.”

“Apollo who are you—

“He’s not going anywhere,” Acheron snarled, his fingers closing over Castiel’s invisible wrist. “He’s here to make sure that nothing untoward happens to anybody.”

“And would the word of your sister not be enough?” Apollo spread his powerful arms in a gesture of supplication. “This is not about any injury that has been inflicted on either of our sides; this is about Ryssa and Apollodorus.” His eyes met Castiel’s once more. “I swear to you on that no harm will come to anyone.”

Castiel’s eyes bored into Apollo’s. He didn’t trust the god in the least; and no force on Heaven or Earth would get him to leave Acheron or Styxx in the company of an Olympian. He felt his power being to seep from him, hot and prickling like burning sunlight.

Apollodorus stirred in Ryssa’s arms. The baby began to cry, the sounds stirring Castiel’s uninitiated heart.

Acheron sighed and pressed his lips to Castiel’s ear.

“Just do as he says. Only for a little while.”

Castiel stared into Acheron’s eyes, the cold, unyielding terror smothering all his rage. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I won’t leave you—

“Just for a while,” Acheron said. “You can hear my soul, can’t you? If anything goes amiss, come back right away and we’ll leave.”

He wanted to argue; wanted to rail against Acheron’s request until the heavens split open.

But the look in Acheron’s eyes was too earnest; and really, what would Apollo do with Ryssa and his newborn son present? Surely the gods weren’t that depraved?

Hating himself for doing so, Castiel nodded. “I’ll be listening,” he said. He squeezed Acheron’s hand as tightly as he could. Over Acheron’s shoulder, he saw Styxx watching him with his eyes filled with an unusual sadness. Did the other prince not wish him to leave? Castiel didn’t know, and he knew it was only wasting time to linger and find out.

“I’ll come back for you,” Castiel said, speaking to both brothers. Then, still feeling wretched, he vanished form Ryssa’s chamber.

The instant he reappeared in the public square in front of the palace, he wished for nothing more than to return to the room. He hadn’t been away from Acheron or Styxx in months, and here among all these people, he felt his anger mounting. 

The tribes people who lived near their home were all of weathered, roan skin and dark hair. Here, with all these people dressed lavishly and wasting their lives and resources, Castiel saw nothing but the worst of mankind. And there were so many blonde humans, too—so many of those impossibly beautiful, blonde people who’d he’d seen that day when he’d rescued Acheron from the amphitheatre.

As he passed unseen through the crowds, Castiel felt the overwhelming presence of energies all around him—of things human and animal and god and Other. His vision swam and his ears thrummed with the tumult; he wanted to disappear into nothingness—to collect Acheron and Styxx from the palace and leave this horrible place for good. Though he could still hear Acheron's soul at an easy pitch--he was evidently delighted to be introduced to his baby nephew--Castiel, couldn't shake the fear that constricted his throat.

He felt the anger from the beautiful blonde people—there really were so many of them out on this day, stirring and staring hatefully at the palace. Castiel couldn’t hear what they said to one another as the crowd closed in around him like locust swarm, but he could feel their wrath—and he could feel something more, something great and terrible and familiar—something he hadn’t felt in what seemed an age.

The sensation seemed to diffuse throughout the square, all over the place as Castiel wandered, waiting for the horrible time to pass. One moment the powerful presense was by the market vendors, the next it was near a fountain. It seemed to linger mostly near the blonde beauties, and as Castiel grew more accustomed to his surroundings, he started to see brief flickers of that strange, familiar something—saw it as it whispered to the blonde men and women.

It was a shape, massive as a storm cloud with one tendril bent to the earth. And as he recognized the intricacies of the shape, Castiel realized what it was—or rather, who it was.

His heart hammering against his ribs, he began to follow the presence, teleporting wherever it went, a few feet off from whatever clusters of gradually angering blonde, unearthly beautiful humans it spoke to. He had to see it, had to find out what it was doing here and why. It seemed to want to do nothing more than rile these folk up—to incite their wrath. And based on the way they turned their faces towards the palace, it was working.

Snarling, Castiel took to the shadows, following the shape as far as the stairs near the temple of Artemis. He had no idea how much time had passed, only that this thing, whatever it was, took precedence in his mind over taking Acheron and Styxx back home. Part of him wanted to shimmer into the palace and return to their snowy homestead regardless of anything else—but he know somewhere deep down that letting this being continue to sow discord would only result in disaster. 

Blending with darkness, Castiel hovered between disappearing and re-appearing. He saw the immense shape whispering like a gust of wind around a group of beautiful humans once more. Then the thing turned on of its celestial eyes Castiel’s way, and Castiel knew at once who it was.

He let his fury loose.

Holding to the human vessel he’d taken like an anchor, his power surged forth, towering over Didymos like a thunderhead. This high and in this form, his wings stretched outwards, hot and radiant and expansive. Three heads, the central one that of a monkey, the left of a hare and the right of a dove, stared at the even more enormous projection that hovered over Didymos.

The middle head, that of an eagle, looked almost comically surprised as it stared down at Castiel’s true form.

Without wasting a moment, Castiel spread his wings and flew towards the bigger angel, anger flying from him like brimstone.

Michael had one moment’s stunned silence before Castiel collided with him; energy exploded outwards, sending thunder, hail and lightning through the sky. But a moment later, both angels had disappeared, Castiel teleporting them from Didymos, into a dizzying spiral of space and matter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My humblest apologies for the wait between the previous chapter and this! Firstly, I haven't been doing so well in terms of mental health--nothing serious, but the medication I tried taking really knocked the wind out of my sails. Additionally, the earliest parts of this chapter were so boring. I mean, it made me feel happy to write, but when there's nothing going on but sweet times, it tends to be a little tedious to write about...which is horrible to say. 
> 
> Luckily...or rather, unluckily...the next chapter that takes place in Cas and Ash's past is going to be par for the course in terms of tragedy when it comes to both Supernatural and the Dark Hunters! 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	17. Chapter 17

Given that he was one of the most powerful beings in existence—predating even God by a few good millennia—Savitar was someone who demanded respect. Despite the easygoing sense that seemed to permeate from his smooth, tan skin, his power was so overwhelming that Castiel nearly sank to his knees in supplication.

Of course, Savitar would have been both embarrassed and annoyed by any such act of deference; in any event, Cas was too blindsided by finding himself in the magical plane of Neratiti to do anything but ask in a trembling whisper, “What’s going to happen to me? Am I dead?”

Savitar grinned, his teeth white as moonlight and perfect as the setting sun. The sea of tattoos along his arms, legs and torso shifted slightly as he draped one powerful arm over the side of his hammock.

“Not dead, little angel. Just in transition. It’s harder to kill an angel than you realize. Come on; take a load off. You’ve been through enough ringers to give a crack addict a headache. You might as well relax here for the time being.”

Cas’s feet tread across the soft, smooth sand. Waves lapped over his toes, the water cool but not uncomfortably frigid. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two long longboards carved from solid wood sticking out of the sand near Savitar’s hammock.

The Cthonian’s lavender eyes followed Castiel as he slid comfortably into the embrace of the neighboring hammock. Pleased that his guest had taken the accommodations, Savitar stared into the clear night sky overhead and gently rocked in his hammock.

Cas waited, the warm night breeze ghosting over his bare skin. The waves rolled in a gentle hush over the shore; gulls screamed out to sea, and off in the distance, the beginnings of a beautiful whale song began.

Still, Savitar said nothing; Castiel wondered if his all-powerful host had fallen asleep. Only Savitar didn’t need to sleep, and in any case, the Cthonian was humming an old Beach Boys song to himself. Time continued to pass, the sky unchanging, the permanent dusk almost lulling Castiel himself into the beginnings of slumber.

But he needed Acheron—needed to find out what had happened back in that room in Sanctuary. If he wasn’t dead, then it stood to reason that he could return, could still save Acheron from his hunger.

He glanced sidelong at Savitar, now idly crooking a raised foot in midair, quite at his eternal ease.

Cas opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Savitar said, “You can go back as soon as you’re ready, little angel.”

Cas grimaced. “Is that so?” 

“If it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.” 

“If you brought me here to quote _Alice in Wonderland_ then I think I’ll skip the beach party. Acheron needs me—

“He does,” Savitar said, facing Castiel with a gentle smile. “More than you’ve ever understood. You can’t think of the times he was here, hurting because he was so lost and alone." 

Castiel’s nostrils flared. “I feel bad enough about that, thank you very much.”

“But you had your reasons.” Savtiar looked almost sad.

“Artemis would have killed me. She threatened as much when my powers started weakening.” Thinking about Acheron’s ravenous hunger—about how he’d torn through Castiel’s throat in his need to feed—Cas murmured, “She’s always won in the past and she always will. Everything will—everything evil…it always takes the things I love…the things that good people love.”

Savitar sighed and sat on the edge of his hammock. The black line of a blue whale tattoo coiled around his thick neck and kissed the side of his jaw. “I can’t argue with you there; evil has to play dirty. But shouldn’t that be more of a reason for us to do everything in our power to hang onto the things that evil doesn’t understand? Love? Hope? Happiness?”

“It’s just so hard…they steal in and tear it all to shreds without thought of the consequence. I did it myself once; I was evil—

“Dog shit,” Savitar said decidedly. “You weren’t evil; you were grieving. You did what you did out of love. That’s always what you’ve done, Castiel.”

“And evil will always find a way to devour love.” That had always been the case; even Heaven had born the fruit of evil all in the name of the Apocalypse. “I want it to stop, Savitar. I want to at least have a fighting chance; not just for myself, but for everyone.” He thought of Sam and Dean and Charlie: “My family, my friends…my love.” But it would never be if beings like Artemis always had to have their own way in the end.

As if he could read Castiel’s mind—which Cas wouldn’t have put past him—Savitar said, “What do _you_ want Castiel?”

“I want Acheron.”

“Than have him.”

Cas shook his head, slinging himself out of the hammock. “You haven’t been listening, Savitar. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t just bend the laws of reality the way that you can—I can’t manipulate the fabric of all that is just to get Fang and Aimee together. I’m just…a nothing. A Fallen Angel. And even if I did kill Artemis, Ash would starve without her blood.”

He’d realized it when Acheron had had him pinned to the dragon’s nest. His entire plan to return to the past with Fang’s help would prove useless in the end; satisfying as it would be to blow Artemis to kingdom come—doable as it would be with Savitar capable of scattering Artemis’s godly essence back to the mystical Source—Acheron would eventually be driven mad without Artemis’s godly blood to sustain him.

She’d win again, because she was evil; she didn’t have to play by the rules—didn’t have to care about anything other than her own gratification.

Savtiar stared at Castiel with those haunting eyes like a winter’s dawn.

Then, without warning, a large coconut fell from the palm tree over Castiel’s head. It collided with the side of his face; stars danced behind his eyes and he felt a spot of blood blossom from his temple.

“Damn it,” his hissed, rubbing at the sore, freshly bleeding spot.

“Angel’s blood.” Savitar stretched, speaking conversationally. “One of the oldest substances in the universe. Older than…ichor.”

Castiel stared at Savitar, and he saw that the Cthonian was smiling once more.

“Thank you,” he said, almost breathless as the solution came to him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Savitar said with another languid smile. “I was just making a purely scientific observation.”

“How do I get back from here?” Castiel’s body vibrated with anticipation. Now that he knew how he could free Acheron from his blood bond, he wanted to leave as soon as possible.

“By being ready.”

“But I am! You just said--

“Oh, I may have opened your eyes. But that doesn’t mean that you’re seeing what’s in front of you. You might want to kill Artemis—and you can. Believe me, nobody despises that monstrous cunt for what she’s put Acheron through more than I do—except maybe you, of course. But the world needs the Dark Hunters, Castiel—maybe not as they’ve always been, but in a certain fashion. You, having spent so much time with demon hunters, should know that. People are frightened, they’re slaughtered and they’re victimized by forces they can’t possibly comprehend; there’s a change coming, little angel, and you could be an agent of it again if you so choose.”

“I’ve been an agent of too many things before…”

“And has it ever occurred to you that maybe all those instances were serving to prepare you for this? For what you would eventually become? You’re more than angel, Castiel—you were always more than just an angel. You wouldn’t have heard Acheron screaming for help all those thousands of years ago if you’d been meant to spend eternity singing hallelujah to God.”

Castiel bristled. “So that’s it then. All that I am—all that I’ve felt, all the people I’ve loved and the loss I’ve experienced and the harm I’ve caused and the lessons I’ve learned—it’s just part of some grand design for destiny?”

“No. You are more than that. Everything is. You are more than what you’ve been; more than what you’ve done or what you’ve felt; you’re more than what you’re going to become. You are you. Everything else—it’s all just stuff happening around you. What matters is how you react to it. You can do whatever you want—but you wouldn’t have come here if you wanted to die—if something in you didn’t want to make amends for all the wrongs you think you’ve done. You would have gone straight to the Source, Castiel.”

Savitar folded his arms behind his head and stared at the canopy of palm trees around him.

“You know what’s in your heart—what it is that you can do from here. The only way you can leave is if you understand that for yourself—if you put the board in the surf and paddle out to the waves.”

For the first time in his living memory, Castiel looked beyond himself—looked beyond his deeds and sins of the past and his bonds in the realm of existence.

He wanted to help those who couldn’t help themselves; that was always what he’d wanted to do. He’d fallen from Heaven, razed Earth to nothingness and then done it all again because his heart refused to let the innocent suffer.

Savitar was right—he couldn’t simply return to Sanctuary just to be with Acheron forever.

But being with Acheron forever certainly held the key to his future—to fulfilling that need to help those in need.

Savitar had said it so bluntly: what do you want?

He could get it now. All of it. And he didn’t even have to destroy Earth to do it this time—didn’t have to absorb the essence of Purgatory or betray his friends. All he had to do was reach out and grasp it.

He heard Savitar chuckle, even as the glorious sunset, soft breeze and lulling waves of Neratiti began to disappear.

“That’s my angel,” Savitar said. “God, I can’t wait to see what you turn into.”

Darkness pressed in around Castiel; he felt the weight around him like a heavy body; the smell of the surf and the pure air disappeared; the sounds of seagulls and whale song gave way to crackling fire and something more—something so pathetic and heartbroken that it made him want to weep.

Surrounded by warmth, he felt himself clutched in the grasp of someone immensely strong—someone whose body was wracked with desperate sobs and intelligible pleas. His eyelids fluttering open, Castiel realized that he was once more back in the dragon’s nest in Sanctuary; Acheron was holding him aginast his chest, and he was crying with all that he had in him.

Only it wasn’t Acheron as Castiel had left him.

The arms that held him were far stronger, bigger, ending in claws hands that cut into Castiel’s skin in the intensity of their grasp. Acheron’s skin was blue as the deepest part of the ocean, marbled with hues of aquamarine and sapphire. Curved black horns as long as a man’s arm distended from the top of Acheron’s head, sprouting from a shock of thick, black hair. His sobs echoed around the vast, nearly barren chamber, sounding like the cries of some felled, majestic beast as they feel from lips as black as coal.

It wasn’t Acheron.

It was Apostolos, son of the Destroyer; and if that was the case then reality as it was known could be in for a world of hurt if Castiel didn’t soothe the anguished, savage demon god.

Cas took a breath; his own blood was warm and thick against his bare chest, but his throat was completely mended, skin, bone and muscle exactly as they had been before Acheron had torn through to feed.

Tears fell against his face as Apostolos held him; the intensity of the beast’s grief and the painful, searing stings of his self-loathing broke Castiel’s heart.

Acheron couldn’t cry; Castiel could never stand to hear Acheron in pain or misery no matter what form he was in.

He wrapped his arms around the immense, bare, broad back of the beast holding him.

Apostolos gasped on a sob; his eyes, burning orange like a fire with red veins splintering to the iris, stared at Castiel in disbelief.

Smiling softly, Castiel brushed his knuckles against Apostolos’s jaw.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like a giant demonic Smurf when you’re like this?”

Apostolos continued to stare. He looked at the blood still staining Castiel’s skin and said, his voice heavy and rasping, “But I thought that I—

“Thank God we’ve both got friends in high places. A real son of a beach if you ask me.”

Apostolos laughed, a trembling sound like cracking earth. A second later, and Castiel felt his body crushed flushed with the demon’s own.

He felt Apostolos’s lips against his throat, and a shiver raced down his spine.

“You’re completely naked right now,” he whispered into the beast’s ear.

“I had other things on my mind besides getting dressed.” Apostolos stared at him, his blue face stained with tears. Really he was as far from intimidating like this as it was possible to be.

The relief stole upon Castiel like a crashing wave—a last vestige of Nertatiti’s island spirit coming back to haunt him. He was alive and he loved this big, blue Smurf demon being with everything he had in him; and he could save them both.

Before he could stop himself, he crushed his lips against Apostolos’s. The demon shuddered and then pressed Castiel to the bloodstained blankets and pillows below them. Cas didn’t care about their grisly surroundings—didn’t care about the startling immensity of the demon god’s length pressing into his thigh. He wanted this, wanted to be here, to take the pain away from the one thing in the universe he held precious above all others.

He gasped, feeling Apostolos curl his claws into the skin of his shoulders. The pain was shocking, but it also served to cement him back here—here in this place, with this being—with his Acheron.

Apostlos kissed at the skin of Castiel’s throat, and Castiel gasped, rocking his hips into the tremendous friction he felt between his legs. The beast growled, stripping Castiel’s pants off and throwing them into a forgotten corner of the dragon’s nest. He trailed his obsidian lips down Castiel’s chest, lapping it his blood and leaving scorch marks over Castiel’s nipples.

When he felt the demon’s tongue around his length, Castiel nearly screamed. Without thinking, he seized Apostolos’s long, rock hard horns in each hand, holding the demon god’s head as he took Castiel into the hot wetness of his mouth.

It wasn’t a gentle, tender act of love—it was desperate, needful—yearning: a confirmation that, yes, Castiel was alive and no, Acheron had not killed him. Cas’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he felt his balls tighten. He came, bucking into Apostolos’s mouth, grasping onto the demon’s horns with all his might.

The hard projections of Apostolos’s horns shrank away; Castiel felt the weight of the demon diminish as he crawled back up his body, arms braced either side of his face. In next to no time, he was looking into the familiar, snowy white of Acheron’s eyes. Boneless, he let Acheron kiss him, hard and unyielding, the taste of the man and Castiel’s own essence almost enough to bring him to aching arousal once more.

When they broke apart, Ash whispered, almost deliriously, “I thought—

“I know.”

“Almost brought about the end of the damn world,” Acheron whispered. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing now, curtained his face, making his eyes all the more luminous.

Castiel smiled gently. Then, through the haze of bliss and relaxation, remembered what he’d discussed with Savitar.

Acheron had fed from him—practically gorged himself on angel’s blood. A blood bond could only be broken if a new one was formed with a being stronger than the original master.

“Ash, listen to me very carefully: do you want to be free from Artemis?”

“Yes. More than anything.”

“Are you willing to risk me?”

Acheron’s eyes widened. He sat up and back on his heels. “I thought I already risked you. I’ve lost you twice now—maybe not for long the second time, but there was so much blood and—

“Yes, there was. Blood. My blood. Angel’s blood.”

Acherons stared at him. “Angel’s blood?”

“Yes. Even as a Fallen Angel, I’m still part of a tier of Heavenly beings; my body was reformed after the Apocalypse. I’m not just the angel Castiel in the body of Jimmy Novak—I _am_ Castiel. This body is mine; this breath is mine, and this blood is heavenly, and it’s stronger than ichor by a long shot.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve taken my blood into you; I can sever the blood bond by drinking of you as well, but it will change me. And I don’t know what it’s going to turn me into.”

Dying fire light flickered in Acheron’s eyes; Castiel saw the hesitation, the fear. His own heart was pounding hard in his chest, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was naked with the man he loved, or what it was that they’d just done together.

Who knew what would happen to him? He wouldn’t die, but Acheron, as an Atlantean, was a completely separate tier from angels and Olympians. The act of vampirisim from a source so powerful would leave Castiel changed, and there was no telling if he would retain his sense of self.

Slowly, Acheron stretched out on the blankets and pillows, his hands braced behind him. Not once taking his eyes from Castiel he said, “Do it. Drink from me, baby.”

Castiel nodded. He crawled towards Acheron, hungry for the man in more ways than one. He was fully prepared to drink from Acheron’s neck or his chest, but Ash shook his head as Castiel drew nearer. With a small smile, he dragged one nail along the skin of his inner thigh, inches away from his heavy sac and the growing hardness of his cock.

Castiel swallowed, lust sweeping through him in hot waves.

Acheron grinned. “Drink,” he said again, his voice heady. “You’ll be waiting on the other side. I know you will.”

Scents overrode all of Castiel’s other senses—the sweet, salty tang of Acheron’s blood and the musk of his body. He closed his mouth over the small, bleeding wound in Acheron’s skin and the taste was beyond Heaven, beyond paradise—beyond the universe. Acheron’s blood had been created for Cas’s consumption, for him to live off of, he was sure of it. He drank it like wine, like the shed blood of a savior; his heart beat faster and faster; his body vibrated; his mind raced. He could feel everything in the room, from the dying embers in the fire to the living presence of his blood.

Acheron gasped, fingers buried in Cas’s hair, his cock hardening.

Castiel felt as if he were being pumped full off the universe itself; heavenly power had nothing on this feeling, nor did the fury that had coursed through him when he’d joined with Apollymi; the glory of devouring the souls of Purgatory paled in comparison to the majesty, the raw power that seared his veins now. Just as he feared that he wouldn’t be able to get his fill of Acheron’s blood, his very soul told him when he’d drunk enough.

Tearing his lips from Acheron’s skin, Castiel sat straight, breathing heavily, feeling more than oxygen fill his length. The energy in him was brighter than starlight, mightier than the churning ocean. He could see existence itself racing beautiful and terrible and chaotic behind his closed eyes; millions of stars burst into life and died, only to be replaced. A song stirred in his soul, the song of something great and mighty, something beautiful and spectacular.

His wings burst from his back at the same time that a wave of power exploded from him. He let out a triumphant shout, feeling his skin heat in the most luxurious of ways. He opened his eyes, and the one and only thing he saw was Acheron, still sitting back on his hands, still naked and hard and bleeding.

The look on Acheron’s face stole Castiel’s breath—a look of pure and utter devotion, stirred by the undying love Ash felt, but also baser—as if he were looking on something altogether holy and almighty.

Castiel looked at his hands, and saw that his skin was glowing pale gold like a ray of pure sunlight. He looked over his shoulder—his wings stretched, blue as the ocean, shimmering and churning like the tide—like the blue of Apostolos’s skin. He ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the sharp points of newly grown fangs. He touched his hands to the side of his head and felt the horns that had grown there—not the long, straight horns that had sprouted from Apostolos’s head, but powerful, curved horns like a mighty ram, curling around his ears and stopping at his jaw.

“Cas?”

Acheron’s voice was small, awestruck but also deeply doubtful.

Glancing around the room, Castiel realized that he was casting the faintest white glow.

He shook his head; his wings disappeared; his horns grew back in on themselves. This form, this new form, was what he’d turned into, but it wasn’t who he was.

Savitar had made him realize that much when he’d been in the limbo of Neratiti.

He smiled at Acheron, and knelt in front of him.

“Too ostentatious?” He said.

Acheron’s face broke in a relieved smile. He tackled Castiel to the blankets, kissing him and laughing like a child. “Not at all,” he said. “Beautiful, actually. And your eyes…they’re like mine now, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They’re still blue but…they’re lighter and they’re bright. Like mine.”

“Because we’re a part of each other now,” Castiel whispered. The enormity almost made him want to cry in relief. After everything they’d suffered—all the loss and the horror and the heartbreak—they had this now, had the security of belonging and needing one another.

Acheron kissed him again, long and deep and searching. Between the heat of their lips and tongues, Castiel whispered, “Please…I need you…”

“Yes.”

Ash held him close as they made love again and again on the soft, warm blankets. Cas could feel Acheron in him and around him and inside him—feel the presence of Acheron’s soul in a way he never had before. Every missing space of his soul had been filled by his beautiful warrior.

He hungered for Acheron’s touch, thirsted for every kiss and bite and feel of his fingers. The smell of their skin and seed permeated the room, and Castiel felt drunk off of it.

At long last, when neither of them could so much as move without feeling the exhaustion in their muscles—when their lips were kissed raw to the point of brusing; when Cas had come so many times that his cock refused to stir again, they lay together, panting and covered in sweat and seed.

This time Castiel held Acheron to him, cradling his head against his chest as he stroked his shoulder. Acheron’s ragged breaths caressed Cas’s skin, making him shiver as if he were standing in the open breeze of a spring morning.

“I love you,” Acheron whispered. “God, I love you.”

Cas kissed him gently. “I’ve loved you since I first heard you,” he said, because it was true. Love had made him fall from Heaven all those centuries ago—love for something greater than anything he’d ever known. Love had driven him to do things he’d never thought himself capable of; love had made him turn the Earth as it had once been to ashes; and love had brought him here, back to Acheron’s embrace.

“You have to go away, don’t you?” Acheron sighed. “To take care of business.”

“Yes. But I’ll be back before long.”

“What’s going to happen to the Dark Hunters?”

Castiel looked at his own hands. Even without knowing how he knew, he knew that the answer was there at his fingertips.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Ash. Right now I just want to hold you for a little while longer.”

Acheron grinned and pressed a kiss to Cas’s pec. “I’m not about to complain.”

Suddenly the door at the end of the dragon’s room burst open. Aimee stood there, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Are you alright? We’ve been waiting, and Etienne said that he heard—oh.” She caught sight of them both, naked and uncovered and in each other’s arms. “Right. Sorry.” Still, she lingered, and Cas felt the slight pleasure rippling through Aimee’s body.

Acheron arched an eyebrow. “Aimee?”

Aimee shook herself. “Right,” she said again. “Sorry. Good for the both of you, by the way,” she added, and then shut the door. Castiel was rather sure he heard Aimee squeal with delight as she walked down the corridor.

“I expect we’ll have a lot of explaining to do,” Acheron said with a smirk. “Can you imagine any of my Hunters reacting that way?”

“It’d be pretty funny to see Zarek jumping up and down like a little girl.”

“We will have to explain this,” Acheron said after a moment. “Maybe not us entirely, but the change.”

“I know.” He kissed Acheron’s temple softly. “But for now, we should probably get some sleep. You especially. You’ve been through a lot.”

“It has been a pretty interesting twenty-four hours.”

 _And_ , Castiel thought before he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off, _it’s going to get a lot more interesting once I rid the universe of a certain heifer bitch goddess._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the demon sex and blood play wasn't too off-putting. If it helps, I wasn't going to add it in originally.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	18. Chapter 18

Castiel was inferior to Michael in terms of strength and power. For that reason, the archangel didn't anticipate his brother doing something so reckless as attacking outright. He staggered as Castiel collided with him, their celestial bodies sending shockwaves through the barren land around them. 

Michael toppled into a mountain, sending rock and snow and trees sliding down in an almighty avalanche. Castiel slashed and tore with all his fury, ripping great flaming chunks out of his brother. Michael had been involved in Acheron's brief enslavement to Artemis; Michael had been the reason that Styxx had endured another brutal assault at the hands of the gods. And Castiel was certain, without really knowing how, that his brother was responsible for having coerced Ryssa into sending for her brothers. 

His shock fading at Castiel's sudden attack, Michael sank all four of his hands into Castiel's shoulders and threw him bodily across the hills and fields. Castiel righted himself, his wings sending lightning rolling across the sky. 

"Come now, little brother," Michael said. "Is that any way to start a family reunion?"  

"You are _not_ my family," Castiel snarled. He held a hand out, collecting the very essence of his rage. A sword of bright fire gathered between his fingers. "What business do you have in Didymos? What do you care for those people?"

"They at least understand the meaning of fealty," Michael spat. He unsheathed four swords from thin air and towered over Castiel. His rage sent madness throughout the immediate lands, but Castiel found himself caring little for the repercussions. He didn't even care that he was outmatched; all he knew was that he wanted his brother dead. 

"I had hoped to talk you round," Michael said. "But if you still fawn over those pathetic--

His words were cut off as Castiel sent a great arch of blazing lightning his way. Michael had enough sense to bat the silver white electricity off with a sword, but the sparks seared into his central face. He let out a shriek, his broad wings flaring. 

Without another word, he charged, four swords drawn, all three of his faces contorted in rage. Castiel knew this would be the end, but he had to try, had to battle his brother for the sake of Styxx and especially Acheron. 

He got one pitiful swing of his sword in edgewise before Michael's own blade sliced into his shoulder. Freezing blood filled the air, raining down in the land below in a shower of cold meteors. Castiel screamed and slashed, but Michael was relentless, driven by his egotistical fury. 

Castiel knew it would be the death of him. Even as he parried and dodged and tried to fly away, Michael bore down with a vengeance. Their dancing footsteps left scorch marks on the earth; black clouds closed in thick around them as they fought. 

Michael batted Castiel clear across a desert and into the earth. Plumes of sand billowed in every direction. Michael's gargantuan form loomed through the dust, six pairs of glowing yellow eyes glaring in holy rage at his bleeding and broken brother. 

"You were supposed to obey!" Michael sounded almost heartbroken. "Why couldn't you just listen?"

"Because we shouldn't have to," Castiel said; his body was bleeding and broken, his wings bent. He thought of Acheron, of all those nights spent in his arms; of every kiss and caress; he thought of Acheron's laughter and the glow in his eyes. He thought of Styxx, of that proud but kind soul of his, the soul that still dared to hope and love despite years of abuse. 

_It was worth it_ , he thought. _My only regret is that I cannot say goodbye..._

Michael snarled in rage, and raised his swords for one final, fatal blow.

It never came.

There was a clash of power against power; supreme energy shielded Castiel. Through his dimming vision, he saw an even greater form crouched before him, a form of such breath taking beauty that his body began to heal in the sheer presence of it.

Lucifer unfurled his majestic wings, sending the light of dawn far and wide across the devastated desert. He had but one head, that of a valiant stag; the other two were too bright and beautiful to pass description. But Castiel could feel the anger flowing from his older brother. 

Lucifer had an enormous broadsword braced against Michael's four; against the breadth of the weapon, Michael's blades looked like twigs. 

With barely a grunt of effort, Lucifer shoved Michael backwards; the archangel stumbled over his own feet and fell to the earth, splayed, his sword scattering and leaving black scorch marks in the sand.

Lucifer stood tall and proud, and bore down on Michael. "What does it matter to you what he chooses?" He swung his sword through the air; Michael let out a scream that split the heavens as one of his wings severed at the shoulder. "What does it matter to you that he loves humanity over us?" The blade plunged through his arm; Lucifer sunk it in as far as he could, holy steel splintering the ground. He glared at the weaker archangel. "Be as you are and leave the rest of us without our heads up the Father's backside alone."

Michael stared with streaming eyes into Lucifer's snarling face. Castiel, righting himself, his body healed, felt a scream resonate through him. But it wasn't his brother; it was a desperate scream, one he hadn't heard in a comfortably long time. 

It was screaming for him.

Michael began to laugh, a horrible wheezing sound. Lucifer yanked his sword free, keeping the heavenly blade trained on the other archangel.

"You're too late," Michael gasped. 

Castiel didn't think; he reacted, tearing through the ether and back to his human vessel. For one moment he stood in the streets of Didymos, where panic and chaos reigned as people screamed and beautiful, blonde men and women ran rampant.

The screaming soul had ceased to ring in Castiel's ears, leaving behind sheer, cold terror. He followed the echo of it, vanished from the street and reappeared in a cold, bright temple. 

He smelled the blood first, the tinny, acrid tang of it heavy on his tongue. The circular chamber reeked of it. Next came the sting of fear and despair, needling at his skin like the piercing of a million hornets. 

Numb, he walked forward to the center of the great chamber, his eyes on the figure lying prone on the sandstone floor.

His strength failed at the same time that his heart shattered. 

Acheron lay in a pool of blood as wide as a pond, his blonde hair was matted around his face; his body was split open from under his chin to his navel, his insides spilled forth like a tangle of fleshy grubs. Chains bound his wrists and ankles, and his eyes stared ever upwards, the warm white light of them dimmed.

It didn't make any sense. Acheron had been alive less than an hour beforehand; had laughed and breathed and promised that they would return to their home in the winter reaches of the world.

Now there was just an empty body.

Castiel moved as if pulled by strings, unable to tear his eyes away from the remains of the man he loved. He didn't even register the feeling of Acheron's shed blood pooling around his bare feet as he strode forwards. 

A rattling gasp made him look round, still feeling as if he were trapped in an impregnable fog. 

A lone figure crawled towards the spot where Castiel stood. He, like Acheron, had been stripped to a loincloth; blood oozed from a myriad of stab wounds in his chest and stomach, but still he struggled to crawl across the floor, blonde hair curtaining his face. 

Styxx.

Castiel stumbled forth, sinking to his knees. Styxx collapsed into his arms, life fading from him. 

Styxx looked into Castiel's eyes, his face stricken with grief and guilt. Blood bubbled from his lips as he whispered in a ragged voice, "I tried...I tried to stop them..."

Of course he had. Styxx had thought the world of his twin brother when they'd finally been reunited; he'd fight God if it came down to it to keep Acheron safe. 

Castiel could heal him, knew he could. He would have to be fast but--

Another line of blood escaped Styxx's mouth; his body spasmed with pain. "I'm scared," he whimpered. "Castiel I'm scared..."

His voice trailed into nothingness; he stared at Castiel as life finally faded from his body. 

Blood seeped between Castiel's fingers and through the front of his deerskin clothes. He felt as if he were seeing himself from some tremendous distance, diminished and powerless and alone. 

He was alone.

Desperately, he looked back to Acheron--no, it was Acheron's body now. Just a body; the warm, caring soul had disappeared, just as Styxx's had.

Only bodies. Only death. Always death.

They were both gone. They had both been ripped from him.

"No..."

In the still, silence of the blood soaked temple, Castiel's voice sounded truly small, truly forgotten.

_Alone._

He felt Styxx's cold, lifeless body; thought of the pain the two brothers—his loved ones—had suffered. 

Castiel threw his head back and let out a scream that tore through every strata of his being. It echoed violently in his ears, tearing at his throat; the scream shook the temple to its foundations, cracking stone and marble. But he was just an angel, just a diminished angel in an uncaring world. He hadn't even been able to save the two people who meant the most to him—hadn't been able to protect the man he'd loved. 

Still clutching Styxx's body, Castiel crawled to Acheron, beautiful, vivacious Acheron, tossed aside and left like butchered cattle. His vision blurred with hot, stinging tears; his lungs ached as sobs tore from him in great, heaving gasps. He couldn't let Acheron stay this way; Acheron was and bright and warm and...

Something stirred at the edge of the temple.

Castiel felt the woman's presence before he saw her. He swallowed his grief as best he could and glared as the vision stepped from the shadows.

It was the same ethereally beautiful woman he'd seen that day so long ago in the river; same flowing silvery-blonde hair; some intense white eyes. Garbed in robes of black and silver, she looked a positive incarnation of Death. 

Her bare feet made no sound, but Castiel saw the completely broken look on her terribly beautiful face. A sob escaped her lips, and she sank to her knees in the pool of Acheron's blood.

"No," Castiel said, his voice thick from sobbing. He tried to shield Acheron from the woman, Styxx's lifeless body still held at his side. 

The woman stared at him, tears the color of starlight spilling from her eyes. She looked, at first, furious; then her grief-stricken face softened. She touched a hand to Castie's cheek, and the angel was filled with a rushing tenderness, a need to protect, and overpowering loss—the love of a mother. And such power was there, such archaic strength that outstripped even the archangels. 

Acheron's mother. 

Castiel felt the woman's presence in his mind—saw her swollen with child, desperate and pursued by her own pantheon; he saw her bind a babe to the soul of an unborn human; saw her contained in a watery hell; felt her wrath and frustration at being unable to reach her son, at seeing his abuse. 

She was Apollymi.

She was the Destroyer. 

"You loved him."

Apollymi's voice echoed in Castiel's mind. He gripped Acheron's limp, lifeless hand tightly. 

"Yes."

"One of the few?"

"Yes."

Apollymi's gaze strayed to Styxx; she looked almost regretful. Then her face hardened, and her hatred warmed Castiel to his very core.

"They did this," Apollymi spat. 

Castiel saw the murder in his mind; saw Ryssa and Apollodorus beset by the blonde, beautiful beings whose anger Michael had stirred like a breeze. He saw mother and child ripped limb from limb; he saw Apollo accusing Acheron and Styxx of the attack; saw Artemis and a whole host of other gods passing judgement; he saw Acheron and Styxx stripped; he saw Acheron bound and crying out his innocence. He saw Apollo sink the blade in; and he saw Michael once more, heard his chilling laugh of victory. 

They had done this.

They had taken Acheron and Styxx away. 

The most intoxicating sensation coursed through Castiel's veins, and it was only when Apollymi’s grip tightened that Castiel realized the goddess had taken his hand in hers. 

"Atlantis shall pay," she said, her voice like the first deathly whisper of winter wind. "My pantheon shall pay. But you who loved my son shall have your vengeance. Our power together will bring ruin to them—all of them."

Heaven and Olympus would run red for this; and so too would Earth, with its uncaring people, who had only ever used and broken Styxx and Acheron when they'd been too vulnerable to resist. 

Apollymi's fingers nearly broke Castiel's hand in the strength of her grasp. Still he did not let go. He could feel that beautiful ebb of energy flowing from the Destroyer into him, filling him like warm, honeyed drink. 

"Angel of Heaven, will you be my hand of death?"

"Yes." 

"Will you destroy them for what they've done?"

"Yes."

"Will you accept my power?"

Castiel's heart beat with renewed vigor; his body thrummed with feral, primordial rage. His veins grew starkly black against his skin; his eyes shone burning white with ancient energy. 

"Will you?"

Castiel smiled. "Yes, _matisera_." 

From that moment on, all he knew was power and consuming rage. 

* * *

Didymos fell first. The only sign of approach the people, already grieving the loss of their princess and royal heir, knew that day was a thick knot of billowing black cloud that formed over the temple of Apollo.

A lone figure, bloodied and blackened, stepped from the grand hall of their Olympian god; those nearest felt a wave of mortal dread before the temple collapsed inwards on itself, stone and marble turning to dust with scarcely a thought. Fire reigned from the sky; buildings and streets splintered and caved in; men, women and children screamed and fled, but there was no escape. Didymos shook to its foundations as the figure walked among the carnage, revelling in the dread and despair. 

When the nothingness of Castiel's rage had razed Didymos to dust, the angel set his sights on the unkind world. Fast as thought he appeared, walking in many separate days and nights all at once, the thick, black tower of cloud growing ever bigger. He swept disease and decay through the most lush of forests; animals turned rabid and tore themselves and their masters apart. Madness consumed mortal minds, breeding frenzy and disorder as the world fell to the abyss. Funnels of wind touched the earth, ripping homes that had stood for centuries to splinters; seas frothed and boiled, sweeping away cities and hamlets alike; piercing hail fell from the sky, bludgeoning every living thing to pulped masses of flesh and bone; and Castiel drank the screams and the terror and hopelessness like wine. His fury was beautiful, awe-inspiring, and he would not cease until there was nothing left of the world.

Let them beg; let them try to hide; let them pray to their gods for a mercy that would never come. _They_ had never shown Acheron or Styxx any mercy; they scarcely showed each other mercy on the best of days. 

Pantheons lesser than the Olympians fell under Castiel's rage; gods, goddesses and demi-beings who sought to save their worshippers were crushed like insects in the grips of the mingled fury of Heaven and the wrath of Kalosis. 

Death and destruction touched every corner of Earth, seeped into every cave and plumed the deepest depths of the oceans; the skies choked with decay and doom, and still Castiel was not satisfied. He wanted his wretched, distant Father to witness the destruction of everything He ever claimed to have created, wanted the Olympians to cower in terror before he finally came for their blood. 

When not even a flea was left crawling on the face of the world, Castiel's thirst still ceased to be quenched. He began to raze the ground itself; he pulled great hunks of distant rock from the frigid abyss of space, tearing gaping wounds through once sturdy continents. The air itself grew toxic, boiling and noxious. 

Yes. He could exist this way for eons if he so chose, letting his havoc turn his Father's perfect, precious world into rubble. He would never get Acheron back, never know his touch or his love; he would never feel the loyalty and kindness of Styxx, not ever again, and Creation itself deserved to burn for it.

But first, Olympus would shatter; he would paint the hall of the gods red with their blood and guts, make a throne of their bones and feast on their screams of terror. 

He turned his path of destruction to the mountain of the Greek pantheon. 

"Castiel, stop!"

He looked through the tower of his fury and saw two insects below. They were trying to stop him, these winged bugs with their animal faces and their puny swords.

He humored them by gracing the world with his presence. 

Michael, pompous as ever, strode forth, his faces grim but still apprehensive. 

"Castiel, you have to--

With a careless wave of his hand, Castiel brought holy fire from the sky; Michael disappeared in the ball of white heat, burning to cinders where he stood

Lucifer did not back down, even as Castiel sent a slicing gust of wind his way. 

"Leave me," Castiel spat. 

"You have to listen."

"You yet live for the sheer fact that you cared enough for my freewill to let me be with Acheron as long as I was."

"And I thank you for that. But brother, there is nothing left to destroy."

"Wrong! There is Olympus! And Heaven!"

Lucifer stilled. When he spoke next he was no longer the right hand of God, but a brother beseeching a brother. "Castiel...all the angels…they’ve never had cause to fear you before."

Fire rained from the sky, but Lucifer was not shaken.

"Then I will _make_ them afraid," Castiel said. He let awful darkness seep from the heart of his tormented soul; screams and cries and wretched groans filled the air, but still Lucifer did not back down. He stepped closer and closer, not ceasing even when Castiel's foul darkness sliced through his wings and celestial body.

For the first time since he'd left Apollo's long destroyed temple, Castiel felt something other than unquenchable rage; a small flicker of fear, barely bigger than a firefly, lit up within him. He redoubled his rage, throwing all his fury Lucifer's way. 

Still the archangel persevered. 

"I _will_ kill you," Castiel ground out. 

"You won't," Lucifer said. "You're too good for that; too good for this."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are."

Castiel threw every last ounce of rage and hurt his brother's way, splintering the land in two beneath him. When the miasma cleared, Lucifer stood, ragged and diminished in the guise of a human man. 

"You are; because if there weren't any goodness in you, you would have turned from their bodies without a thought."

The flare in Castiel grew, until it consumed a small piece of his anger. It was barely a shred, but it proved the killing blow; all his rage collapsed inward on itself; the sky cleared and the plague upon the earth withdrew. Weak sunlight shone on the scorched and broken plain; Castiel fell from his billowing, black cloud of hatred and vengeance, once again a man—a broken, utterly savaged vessel of a human. 

He screamed at Lucifer, batting his fists against his brother's body. But Lucifer held him fast, and eventually, utterly bereft, Castiel collapsed into his brother's arms.

"I'm…so…angry!" Castiel screamed, his throat blistering at the force. 

Lucifer held him close. "I know," he whispered. "Believe me, little one, I know. I may not understand the depths of it, but I accept it. I accept you."

Castiel stared with eyes streaming at Lucifer's understanding face. "Kill me," he begged. "Lucifer, please kill me. I want to be with them; I want Acheron."

"I can't." It was only when the pale light of the long buried day caught Lucifer's face full on that Castiel saw that his brother's eyes were filled with tears.

He was crying. 

Staring around an earth forever changed by the deaths of Styxx and Acheron, Castiel felt nothing but cold indifference.

"I have to go back now don't I?"

Lucifer nodded, wiping his face on the backs of his hands. "He wants to talk to you."

Castiel smiled weakly, clinging to one last hope.

"Then maybe _He'll_ kill me."

Lucifer shook his head; their Father could vent his frustration, but He would never kill. He never had directly. 

And that, Castiel realized as he took Lucifer's hand and felt himself pulled towards Heaven's gate, was exactly why people like Apollo and Michael would always sniff out the light of good souls like Styxx and Acheron. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	19. Chapter 19

Castiel found the bar of Sanctuary dark and nearly deserted when he left the dragon’s nest. The band had put away their instruments hours before, and a glance at the clock on the wall showed him that it was close to four in the morning.

He paused, tugging the rest of the t-shirt he’d found on the ground of his and Acheron’s room over his body. 

“Yeah, really blows your mind, doesn’t it?” Fang’s voice rumbled from near one of the tables. He was dressed in the same leathers he’d had on when they’d taken the Spathi in the alley hours before. He sucked back the remainder of the bottle of _Monkey Shoulder_ scotch whisky on the table before him and got to his feet.

“The two of you really know how to while away the hours, huh?”

Cas felt his face tinge with a pink flush, which only made Fang grin all the more. He gave Castiel’s shoulder a playful cuff and said, his voice low, “I’m about ready to turn a somersault over Ash finally settling down, and you seem like you’re worth him almost dropping demon and ripping the world to shreds. But I’ve gotta be honest, man—I was almost pissing my pants when I smelled what he’d turned into.”

He raked Castiel with a curious look. “Fuck, look at you. You look…different. And your eyes, man. They’re like Ash’s eyes almost, but still blue.”

“He rubbed off on me,” Cas said without thinking.

Fang barked a laugh. “Yes, I can smell as much on you. Don’t get too embarrassed about it though—this place is ripe with people hooking up, and there isn’t a man or woman who’s rented a room here for a weekend who I haven’t smelled the scent of doing the nasty on. Now…you scratched my back with the Spathi, so where and when in time do you want me to take you exactly?”

“Sunrise, Wyoming. 1861.”

Fang’s eyebrows rose. “Are you kosher?”

“Like shellfish. There’s something back there that I need.”

Fang nodded, gripping Castiel by the wrist tightly. “No disrespect to the time period, but there’s going to be some things you’ll see and some smells you’ll smell. Get your face right, dude.”

“If everything goes according to plan, we’re not going to be there very long.”

Sanctuary began to shift, slowly at first. The walls and chairs and bar and stage turned into a whirlwind of imagery that was all but nauseating to behold. Pressure squeezed around Castiel’s body, making his eyes ache and his teeth gnash together.

Just when Castiel felt as if he couldn’t take the dizzying array of scenery—just when the pressure grew so immense that he felt as if his eyeballs would pop out of his head—time began to slow to its normal pace once more.

They were standing in a darkened saloon. Castiel smelled dust and heat and rum. His skin prickled with the sensation of a familiar presence, but before he could move, Fang pulled him into the shadows under the vaulted ceiling.

There were three people near the bar. Castiel recognized them by their clothes and the signatures they gave off—Sam and Dean, hurrying towards someone near the racks of old dusty bottles. Cas heard a heavy thunk, and saw something metallic fall to the dusty ground. Dean—the past version of him—wheeled around, but before he could speak, he disappeared, pulled into the rent in time that the past version of Castiel had opened.

“Trippy,” Fang whispered. The wolf tensed a split second later as heavy, hurried footsteps sounded from overhead. Castiel knew that they had precious few moments before Elkins, the owner of the saloon, made it to the ground floor.

Cas’s skin flushed with heat; Fang gasped as the angel’s eyes glowed an electric shade of blue. Without knowing how he knew that it would work, Castiel held out one hand. The silver gun slid across the floor as if pulled by a powerful magnet; a moment later, Cas held the powerful firearm by the grip. He could feel arcane energy coursing through it, warm like the heat from a powerful ventilator.

Fang gawked at him.

“You’re going to have to give me a PowerPoint on your level up, man. That was some seriously freaky shit for a Fallen Angel.”

The footsteps clattered down the wooden slats that served for stairs. Cas stuffed the Colt into the back of his pants and took Fang by the wrist again.

“Sorry to get so personal,” Cas said as the saloon began to shift and swirl around them. 

“Don’t worry about it. Give me a shit ton of bourbon and I’d jump in the sack with you any day of the week, long as my girl got to be there to watch.”

Castiel wanted very much to laugh, but again the pressure of coursing through space-time was weighing on his body and his being. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on Fang’s strong grip—on the cold metal of the Colt against the bare skin of his tailbone.

When, at last, they landed in Sanctuary in the present, Cas withdrew the Colt from his pants and let his gaze rove over it.

Fang whistled. “Must be one hell of a piece if you were willing to violate some serious protocols to get it.”

“It is,” Castiel said. This was no ancient artifact kept by some heir apparent—this was the gun at in its prime, sleek and silver as a storm cloud. Based on Castiel’s memory of the event, there were still several shots left in the barrel, and he only needed to make one count if necessary.

Fang watched Cas for a moment, arms across his chest. He seemed to comprehend something, and his shoulders heaved.

“You’re going to break more rules, aren’t you?”

“That all depends on who it is that’s keeping track.”

“We’ve got a friend in a tropical place, don’t we?”

Cas nodded. Savitar had done so much for the katagaria—as part of the controlling council, the Omegrion, he was naturally invested. But what the Cthonian had done for Fang and for others like him went beyond simply looking out for a species.

He did it out of love, much as he was allowing Castiel to go against the laws of the universe out of his love for Acheron.

Fang sighed. “Whatever it is that you’re going to do…well, I wish I could get a front row seat to it.”

Fang’s hazel eyes burned with intensity. Castiel saw flickers of some haunted pain—could hear distant echoes of screaming and loss and torment—could feel the need and desire to be with Aimee despite everything that separated them. A steeliness like flint, a pain like barbed wire and a wolfish need to lash out coiled around Fang’s being, but under it all was tremendous kindness and a painful vulnerability.

He was hearing the katagaria’s soul. It was so like Dean’s, and the revelation nearly made Castiel drop the Colt.

“There’s so many things in this universe that devour the weaker,” Fang said softly. “Things that snuff out light whenever it starts to shine. The way I look at it, it’s about time they start feeling just how badly the flame can burn them.”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you, Fang.”

“Make her suffer for it.” With that, Fang turned and made for the stairs.

Castiel waited for a moment, searching himself for any sign of power. He knew he was changed—knew that he held threads of universal power within him. Moving objects with his mind and hearing a person’s soul was just one portion of this hoard. It was so much better than when he’d been in his god-like state after gorging himself on Purgatory, because it was pure—built from his angelic blood and Acheron’s Atlantean essence.

He could do so much, he realized. He could feel every soul in Sanctuary and all of New Orleans if he really flexed himself. He could bring storms and shake the ground if he so chose—could have a fraction of the terrible power that Apollymi had blessed him with when he’d wrought his devastation on the world all those centuries ago.

But he was wiser now—knew that his emotions did not have to pull him hither and thither.

Even with the Colt in his grasp, he knew that he had to take the high road.

Castiel’s wings stretched, invisible but powerful in the confines of Sanctuary’s bar. Several chairs and tables toppled to the floor at the breadth of Castiel’s wings.

He took a step forward, and found himself in a completely different place—a place of white marble. Columns stretched to the vaulted ceiling; smooth benches lined the walls. A grand throne piled with cushions and blankets stood against the opposite wall. All was dark and silent, but as Castiel strode across the ground, he stretched his limitless power a millionth of an inch, and every torch sconce blazed to life. 

He wanted them to know he was here—wanted Artemis to know that he’d invaded her precious throne room. He wanted the gods to be afraid and powerless and hopeless, but knew that it wouldn’t be wise. He needed to talk to Artemis first—to give her the chance that, as far as he was concerned, she didn’t deserve.

So he masked his powers, cloaking himself so completely that he would only register as a mere interloper in the halls of Olympus.

He sat on the throne, kicking his legs over the opposite arm and spreading himself out at his leisure. He hated being here, hated that very thought of whose high and mighty posterior graced this throne. He had but to extend his power and see through time—see all the abuse that Artemis had showered on Acheron in this place. Mere hours before she’d had him here, whipping his back into mincemeat with petulant glee on her face.

Castiel’s wrath cracked the wall behind him with a sound like thunder.

A split-second later, the door to Artemis’s throne burst open.

She stood there, in a designer white gown, a far cry from the Greek robes she’d worn all those centuries ago. She hadn’t changed at all, not that Cas had expected her to—she was still tall, still shapely; still with that perfect smooth skin and flowing ruby hair.

Still with that same haughty indifference to the fact that other beings in the universe existed—that they mattered.

“You!” Artemis sounded more annoyed than scared—which suited Castiel’s ends perfectly. “How dare you! Get off of my throne!”

“No,” Castiel said simply. “It’s annoying you and I like it when you’re not happy, heifer.”

With a snarl, Artemis stormed towards him. The door to the corridors of Olympus slammed shut behind her. Castiel smirked, and flexed his power, sealing the heavy golden entrance so that none could enter or leave. Artemis, head too full of fury, did not notice. 

When she was six feet away, Castiel let out a bored sigh and slipped from the seat, standing before her. She was taller than him, but he wasn’t afraid of her—not the way he had been all those centuries ago when he’d been a Fallen Angel trapped in the aging body of a mortal man—when she’d held that mortality over his head like a razor.

Artemis’s eyes blazed with green fire. “I’m going to kill you,” she hissed, seizing him by the wrist and wrenching him to the side. Cas let her, pretending to stumble over his own feet. “You took him away from me. I know it was you. You just had to come back and ruin everything!”

Castiel only smiled. Artemis let out a furious scream and struck him across the face. Spitting blood at Artemis’s feet, Cas simply shrugged. “I didn’t ruin a thing, heifer.”

“Stop calling me that! You sound just like that little demon of his.”

“I have habit of imitating the people I respect.”

“What do you want? Here to gloat?”

“As defending champion of that title, are you feeling threatened?”

Artemis’s lip curled. “The day I’m afraid of you is the day I beg on my knees.”

“Really now?”

Castiel let the cloak on his powers drop. His wings unfurled once more, majestic and blue as the ocean. The mask over his appearance shifted, changing back to the thing he’d been in the dragon’s nest. His horns uncurled from his scalp and his fangs distended; his skin glowed pale gold. The shadow of his strength touched every corner of Artemis’s throne room; several torches sputtered out, plunging the marble chamber into semi-darkness.

The artifice of control and petulance slid from Artemis’s face like melting snow. She trembled and backed away, and Castiel let her go. He saw the goddess’s knees knock together, and heard a pitiful squeak of terror escape her lips.

He wanted to glory in her fear—to drink it; to bathe in it. She deserved untold pain for all the evil cruelty she’d wrought, not just over Acheron, but also over the lives of mortals and Dark Hunters alike.

Castiel let his visage shift back to the unassuming shape of Jimmy Novak.

“I would say that we’re on equal footing, except that would be a lie. I’m stronger than you now, Artemis. Stronger than your entire damnable family.”

Artemis swallowed, her eyes darting to the door. But she didn’t back down, not entirely—her pride was too great for that.

“And?” She tossed her hair back. “You may have him now, but I can still take him from you if I choose. I can still find other ways. I have more people at my disposal now.”

“You see, that’s your problem, Artemis. You never think of other people beyond what they can give you. That would make you a sociopath to some people on Earth—to me it makes you a vile, reprehensible cunt.”

Her eyes widened. Her hand shot out to slap him in the face, but Castiel caught her by the wrist.

“Please,” he said, “spare us both the theatrics of you thinking you have the upper hand.” He tossed her to the side, and she collided with her throne, grasping one of the arms like a life buoy.

Keeping his blazing blue eyes on her, Castiel retrieved the Colt from the back of his pants. He cocked it, the threatening click satisfying in the otherwise vast silence of the throne room.

Artemis let out a nervous peal of laughter. “A gun? You really think—

“This isn’t just a gun, Artemis. It’s _the_ gun. Crafted by a mortal man with the knowledge of the ages—crafted by a mortal man who was so confident that everything in the universe could be killed that he put a touch of Death in the original thirteen bullets. Don’t believe me? Call your worthless rapist prick bastard of a brother here and find out. I would love nothing more than to blow his balls off.”

Artemis’s lip trembled, but she said nothing. Her eyes were trained on the Colt as if it were a poisonous viper.

“I want nothing more than to blast your evil skull to bits with this,” Cas went on. He wanted it so much, in fact, that his finger hovered over the trigger, itching to let the bullet fly.

Artemis instantly went into a panic.

“You can’t do that. You would upset the balance of the universe!”

“Not really. I’ve got a friend who’s more than willing to look the other way when it comes to you. You haven’t just pissed off a lot of people, Artemis. You’ve made a lot of people hate you to the point where they’re willing to bend the laws of existence just to rid them of you. Must feel nice. Not even your father can lay claim to something like that.”

Artemis shook. “He would hate you eventually. Our daughter would hate you too!”

“Katra doesn’t seem to have much love for you, from what I’ve heard. And as for Acheron…Artemis, you really need to do better than that.” He shook his head, almost feeling sorry for her now. “Are you really so blind that you can’t see it? You used him and abused him even before he was killed by your brother’s hand. And afterwards? You truly think his back was the only thing you broke? He doesn’t want you dead—but he’s more than willing to look the other way. And if you think he’ll hate me you really don’t know love from your own ass, Artemis. Even in the highly unlikely event that he does, Acheron’s quite good abiding the things he _hates_ , in case you hadn’t noticed.”

What little blood there was left drained from Artemis’s face. He’d found her Achilles heel—found that one thing about her that she herself didn’t want to admit.

He sighed, and then let the hand holding the Colt drop to his side.

“Everybody despises you,” he said, as if just realizing it now. “Everybody. Hates you. You’ve been alone for centuries—reviled for longer. You’re alone, even when you’re not. Even when you have whatever unfortunate young man is in your bed, you’re still alone. You were so alone that you were willing to rip the life of an innocent Titan asunder just to save the father who’d never loved you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes, but Castiel would not let his heart be moved farther than it had in her regard.

“Your loneliness is a blessing, Artemis. It’s saved you this day. I’m not going to kill you now, but you give me one rumor of a reason—one tiny little speck of dust of an excuse, and I will kill pull the trigger. The Dark Hunters don’t need you—they’ve never needed you.”

Artemis shuddered, but her eyes still burned with emerald hatred. “And what of the rest?” She hissed. “There are more to be created.”

Castiel knelt in front of her. He let his eyes show her the truth—the true extent of his power. “What do you think I’m here for? I am his consort—I am his chosen. He is the leader of the Dark Hunters, and I am the guardian angel of those who hunt darkness. I have walked with souls who have seen worse torture than the likes of Zarek and Valerius—who have known horrors to shame Wulf and Phury and Sundown. I have felt their injustice, Artemis. I am the new dawn, and you are a dying star.”

She recoiled; Castiel smirked with satisfaction and stood up straight, staring down at the diminished goddess who’d torn his life and love to shreds so long ago.

“But only if you give me a reason, Artemis. You have a choice—you’ve always had a choice just as everything and everyone in this great, mysterious universe has a choice. It’s simple—whether you choose to do good, or evil. Whatever you choose to do here is yours; I’m only here to warn you that if you misstep, there will be consequences further than just having to return a Dark Hunter’s soul to them. I highly doubt you’ll make the right choice. Prove me wrong.”

He saw something break in her normally arrogant face.

Satisfied, Castiel turned on his heel and strode towards the door. He let his wings unfurl, prepared to fly back to Sanctuary and to Acheron.

He felt Artemis move before he saw her—felt the raw, blazing power as she withdrew something from midair. He felt her intent, felt the vengeful hatred in her soul—felt the murder in her very being.

And he was disappointed. Highly disappointed. The feeling surprised him—cold and heavy and horrible. Yet what had he expected otherwise from someone whose pride was more important than her reason?

Shaking his head, he seized the Colt from the back of his pants and whirled around.

Artemis had a wicked, splintering bolt of Zeus’s lightning in one hand. It wouldn’t have killed Castiel even as a Fallen Angel, but it would have sent him falling to Earth—would have broken him and kept him dormant for decades. 

She would never learn. Her hatred was too strong, too consuming.

The last thing he saw as he fired the Colt was her eyes: wide and shocked and disbelieving as he pulled the trigger. The bullet collided with her, hitting her square in the head. The bolt of lightning fell from her wrist and ricocheted around the room and into nothingness. 

Artemis shattered into a billion particles as the Colt’s bullet hit her; Castiel felt thousands and thousands of years of archaic power coil in the throne room; a thread of this power wound itself through him, blistering like a shock of pure sunlight. He grit his teeth, and stared as the remainders of Artemis’s being and essence circled into a tight curlicue. Then the essence shot through the ceiling and into the sky—towards the ancient Source where it would be processed and turned into something new—something better.

For a long moment, Castiel stood in the empty throne room. He could feel chaos bleeding throughout Olympus; the other gods would know that one of theirs had been felled, and they wouldn’t be happy.

There was nothing more he could do here.

Pocketing the Colt once more, Castiel flew from the heavens and was soon back in the dragon’s nest in Sanctuary.

The firelight had burned to only a few smoldering cinders. The air was still rife with the smell of Acheron’s skin—with the feeling of his power, heavy and intoxicating. He slept in the center of the nest, his body covered by a thick quilt. His hair, blonde once more, fanned out behind him. He looked perfect—the missing piece of a soul that Castiel hadn’t even known he’d ever had.

Silently, Cas shrugged off his clothes. He ripped a pocket in the air open, and sent the Colt to Katoteros. It would be safest there, for none but he and Acheron and Simi could set foot in the mystical heaven of Atlantis.

He felt suddenly weary to the marrow—centuries of anger and pain finally having found closure. He wanted to sleep for a week, and sleep with Acheron next to him.

Stripped naked, Cas sank to the mattress next to Acheron and slid under the covers.

Acheron stirred. His eyes opened just enough for Cas to see the glowing white beneath his lids.

A lazy smile spread over his lips, one of such pure happiness that Castiel forgot, for a moment, that he’d ever heard the name Artemis.

“Castiel,” Ash whispered, taking him into his arms and holding him close. “My Castiel…my angel.”

Cas smiled, pressed a kiss to Acheron’s chest, and nestled in close.

Whatever was to happen would happen. But for now and forever, Castiel had his Acheron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have any idea how satisfying it was to write that death scene? It certainly made up for what I had to write last chapter. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	20. Chapter 20

Angelic nature protected Castiel from the crushing might of Heaven. As he and Lucifer passed through the gate, Castiel clung to his mortal body, refusing to shed the skin and bone of Dimitri of Didymos.

He could feel the presence of angel’s, feel their stares and their fear and distrust. It struck him as odd that, mere months beforehand, he would have bowed his head and felt the shame they all so desperately expected of him. Now he matched their scorn an their fear, glaring fiery daggers at those he’d once called brothers.

Lucifer, keen on throwing Castiel at their Father’s feet, all but dragged him through the majestic vista of Heaven. Not a word was said between the two—Castiel hadn’t the strength to speak of fight. He would be obliterated in a matter of moments—of that he had no doubt.

Lucifer ascended towards a bright, immense sphere of light like a star. Castiel’s eyes burned to look at it, and his skin prickled with the immensity of holy power. Lucifer did not hesitate at the sight as he and Castiel passed through a great arch and into a vast, all but empty space. Clear blue sky stretched endlessly; in the midst of the nothing was a great, blazing something—a power so devastating that it made Castiel’s knees shake from the sheer force of it.

He wasn’t afraid—he wasn’t much of anything anymore. But the pure reaction couldn’t be helped. He was in the presence of the holy of holies—the almighty. A vast golden mountain rose from nowhere, serving as the seat for the Father. Castiel could scarcely look God’s way without feeling his sight suffer. He saw discernible snatches of beings among the folds of God’s immense wings—human and animal and nature alike.

God was indescribable, beautiful and terrible. Castiel had spent countless eons worshiping at the feet of his Father, praising him ceaselessly and thinking of nothing but worship and fealty. God had once been everything to Castiel, and has inspired in him true awe and fear.

Now all he saw was a bloated, self-important, unfeeling sphere of light.

A point in the midst of the almighty shifted ever so slightly, like the churning of the ocean’s surface. A moment later, something alighted—an angel in its true form. Of all the angels, it was the most alien, with three immense, humanoid heads. The expressions were blank and stone set like theatrical masks: the central face had no features save a mouth; the left face had only ears and the right, only eyes.

A voice echoed all around the vast blue space, a voice simultaneously thunderous as a tornado and gentle as a flake of snow.

“You know why you are here. Why are you come in the guise of men. Shed your carapace if you wish to seek an audience.”

Lucifer’s shoulders heaved as if he’d been given an irritating demand. A moment later, the mortal form he’d taken dissolved into a billion particles, and the great, broad winged, terribly beautiful archangel sprang forth, towering stories above Castiel’s body.

Despite the immensity of power around him, Castiel did not let go of his vessel. Another brush of breeze-like power rippled around the throne of God.

“The Father commands you shed your body,” Metatron said once more.

“No,” Castiel said, standing his ground.

Lucifer’s wings ruffled.

“Castiel,” he said. “Please. This isn’t the time or the place for defiance.”

“He wants me to shed my vessel so that he can trap me here,” Castiel said calmly. “I’m not going to do that. Dimitri of Didymos gave me this body willingly, which is the least I can say for some.”

Heat coursed through the throne room; Castiel felt the surprise and anger from Metatron. But not, he noticed, from his Father.

“You dare,” Metatron snarled, and this time their voice was not tinged with the cacophony of reality itself. “Petulant whelp. You’ve already caused enough trouble. Relinquish your meat suit and—

Power coursed through the throne room like a river current. The central speck at the center of God grew until it was the size of human being. The whisper sounded again, and Metatron stilled, turning their eared-face towards the beautiful sphere of God’s might.

“He seeks a private audience,” Metatron said, the contempt barely restrained. “He deigns to talk to you personally in a form you will comprehend.”

Castiel barely repressed an eye roll. Next to him, Lucifer coalesced into a human shape once more, granting Metatron a passing look of interest as the Voice of God left the throne room for the greater vistas of Heaven.

The swirling mass of alpha and omega compressed, as if it were being squeezed by two grasping hands. A moment later, it formed itself into the shape of a middle-aged human man. A robe of white covered his olive skin; his hair and beard were dark, but flecked with gray, and his eyes, bright and clear, were both sad and understanding, and Castiel hated the very sight of him. 

God walked slowly and assuredly towards Castiel and Lucifer.

“Please don’t think me angry. I only want to understand why it was that you did what you did.”

Castiel looked into God’s face. Part of him wanted nothing more than to break down and beg for forgiveness. But the impassivity in his Father’s form only served to enforce his belief that the Almighty cared little for anything He had ever created.

“Can’t you see?” Castiel asked, his voice shaking. “Can’t you hear?”

“Castiel!” Lucifer hissed, evidently appalled at the lack of direct respect. Again, Castiel rolled his eyes. His brother spoke an immense game when out of God’s sight, but here, the archangel had to play the role of the favored.

God simply shook His head. “I can see all and hear much. But even I do not pretend to know the hearts of anything in this universe. Why, Castiel? Why did you destroy it?”

“They killed them,” Castiel spat. “They used them. They beat them and abused them and put them through humiliation. And none lifted a finger to help. Including you.”

“Would you have killed me, too?”

Castiel felt his lip quiver and his eyes fill with a rush of hot, prickly tears.

“Yes,” he said at last.

Lucifer turned to face him, eyes wide. Looking back to their Father, the archangel said, “He doesn’t mean it. He wouldn’t have—

“I would have,” Castiel said, not taking his eyes off his Father's face. “You don’t care. You’ve never cared. You don’t care for us beyond worshiping you, and you didn’t care for them and what they suffered. One day among them—one day with their pain and their beauty and their monstrosity, and you would.”

For a moment, Castiel expected his Father’s wrath. He anticipated the destruction, needed it—needed it to reunite him with Styxx and, most especially, with Acheron.

But God simply shook His head, and began to pace in abrupt agitation. Despite not undergoing any immediate physical change, He seemed to regress to the mannerisms of an adolescent boy.

“There’s nothing left,” God said distractedly. “Nothing left to learn from. You’d have thought better if you’d wanted this from me, Castiel.”

“So kill me,” Castiel said.

“No!” Lucifer yelled. He took a step forward. “Father, this was entirely my doing. I took Castiel through the Gate and showed him everything of Man. It was my suggestion that he take a vessel.”

“And you didn’t have a sword to my throat the entire time,” Castiel said quietly. His brother stared at him, looking as if he’d suffered the deepest of betrayals.

Castiel smiled sadly. “I know you’re trying to help,” he said. “But I chose. And I loved it. I _loved choosing_. To be able to be free like them. I’ll die for it gladly. For him. For what we had.”

The holy space was far too bright to deny the shine of tears that welled in Lucifer’s eyes as he stared at Castiel in stunned silence.

God shook His head once more, looking more and more pathetic in Castiel’s sight.

“I have to start again,” He said. “I have to create something new. Something that will listen. Something animalistic and primal.”

All the sorrow vanished from Lucifer as he rounded on God, heat flushing his high-cheek boned face. “You’re…creating more automatons?”

God looked at Lucifer the way a child gazed at a disappointed parent. He hurried towards his favorite creation, his eyes wide and imploring. “You have to understand,” God said. “There’s so much more that I could accomplish. I may have failed with Men and Angels, but I can succeed still. You have to give me that chance. You have to have faith in me.”

Castie laughed. Even to his own ears, the noise was horrible—broken and so close to being unhinged that it froze Lucifer and God in place. He couldn’t put into words what he thought and felt—only that he wished dearly to have more of Apollymi’s power here so that he could rend Heaven into pieces.

“After everything he went through,” Lucifer whispered at long last, his gaze incredulous and all but hateful as he stared at their Father, “you still choose others…”

“It is my right,” God said, now snappish and proud. “I am the morning and the evening—the alpha and omega. You are my children. They were mine. What’s left of them shall be hidden and protected—their own gods will no doubt have ways of keeping them safe. But the rest—they were perfect in my sight, and I will see them once more. But for now…I have to start again. I have to begin again.”

“And us?” Lucifer said, gesturing at Castiel.

“Michael is already mending,” God said. “He was too precious in my sight for me to let his essence drift away. As for the two of you—Castiel has already made it plain that he seeks to return to Earth. A reunion with his human is certainly more vital to him than service to his family.”

Rage clouded Castiel’s vision, a mere sliver of what he’d felt when he’d waged his chaotic rampage on Earth. He took several steps towards God, but Lucifer stepped between them, his gaze warning.

“How dare you,” Castiel spat. “You have no idea what Acheron meant to me!”

“Enough to destroy life over,” God said, far too understandingly for Castiel’s liking. “But you needn’t have raged, and you needn’t any longer. He’s where he’s meant to be now, and the world will certainly be a changed place with the two of you in it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can’t you feel him?” God questioned. “He yet lives. He was reborn. Weeks have past already on Earth. He’s reborn—surely you knew it was in his blood to be?”

Even as Castiel stared in incredulous rage at his Father, he let his senses return to Earth.

Shock rippled through him like a wave of holy fire. He could, indeed, feel something on the periphery of his senses—something like Acheron, but changed somehow—stronger, ancient and more lethal than he’d ever been before. Yet, despite all this, it was clearly Acheron’s signature—that beautiful, broken soul who’d been one of two stars in the endless night of Castiel’s time on Earth.

God’s lips parted in surprise.

“You…didn’t know,” He said at last. “You didn’t know what he was, did you?”

Castiel felt his body tremble with an onslaught of rage, confusion and renewed pain.

Lucifer, once more acting as the voice of his blindsided little brother, stared at God with something like a shadow of deepest hatred in his gaze. “What are you talking about?” He demanded in a sibilant whisper.

God continued to stare at Castiel, looking more like a child than what was belied by his shell of a tangible form.

“He’s a god, Castiel. An Atlantean god. I thought you would have known after you took Apollymi’s power into yourself.”

“I saw him dead.” A single tear burned a trail down Castiel’s cheek as he stared at his Father. “What was I supposed to think? Their demi-gods die all the time…”

“But he’s primordial, Castiel. All Atlanteans are. Separate from anything I’ve ever laid a finger on…”

Castiel shook his head. “You blame me for destroying creatures whose suffering you only care for when they sing your praises. And now you blame me for being ignorant of something that not even Acheron knew…” Taking a shuddering breath, he wiped his eyes on the back of his hands. “This is the last time you’ll see me—

“Castiel,” Lucifer said in a strangled tone. “You can’t—

But Castiel stepped away from his brother—away from his Father, who stared at him still with that dumfounded, blank expression.

“I chose him. And I will always choose him.”

He turned, feeling disoriented, wanting to scream and lash out once more. He made for the vast arch the led back to Heaven proper.

“You can never come back!” God called out. “You fall through the gate once more, and you forsake this as your home.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t forsaken me,” Castiel said without breaking his stride. He felt the raw rush of power as both God and Lucifer expanded to their true forms. He heard Lucifer calling out for him—his voice pleading and desperate, and Castiel was not so heartless as to deny the strangling pity for his older brother. Lucifer, who had been the apple of God’s eye for time untold, having to remain here with these sycophants, and a Father who would never learn from his mistakes. 

But Castiel was too tired of having to bend at his Father’s beck and call; he was tired of being controlled and being used and lied to. He could feel Acheron’s new soul even here in Heaven—the ancient power of it practically singing to him.

Acheron—his Acheron—was alive, and that was all that mattered.

He did not hesitate as he marched through Heaven towards the gate. It seemed so long ago that he’d fallen through and changed everything so inherently. Now, his steps did not falter, nor did his mind give him cause to reconsider. Even as he heard Lucifer shouting for him, Castiel merely looked back over his shoulder one last time at his brother’s majestic faces.

Offering a final, almost sad smile, he fell backwards, and plummeted to Earth, surrounded by a cocoon of protective heavenly power.

He landed in a cloud of dust in a barren, sandy landscape. A sun that glowed red in the sky scorched the desolate earth; white clouds billowed overhead, pluming towards the endless vault of the heavens. At first, it seemed as if there were no life in sight; but as Castiel walked, barefoot, over the ground he’d so recently razed to nothing, he saw a herd of something dark in the distance.

Peering through the haze of spiraling heat, he saw that it was a pack of wild, desert boars.

He’d been in Heaven for mere minutes, but those were as good to weeks, if not months, here on Earth, to say nothing of how long he’d waged his tremendous vengeance.

He could feel Acheron, the call of his soul like a long-forgotten song brought back to memory. Closing his eyes, Castiel pushed all emotion away, focusing only on that call, on that sense of the man he loved.

“Acheron,” he whispered. He felt himself traveling through space, from the barren heat of the broad desert to the cold reaches of somewhere remote and equally desolate.

“Acheron…”

Frigid water pelted against him. Winds as strong as a stampede of bulls beat at his skin as he traveled to a rocky coastline.

“Acheron!”

Again, on through this changed world, faster and further. He traversed fields of ice and screamed to the wild winds. He roared to churning mounds of bubbling lave and raced through burned forests, screaming and calling Acheron's name until his throat was raw and his legs were in danger of giving out. Then...

“Castiel?”

Castiel opened his eyes. He stood on a hillside at twilight, and there was so much greenery in the valley below that it nearly stole his breath. He’d thought that he’d demolished everything wholesome on Earth—to see such a bastion of beauty was nothing short of breathtaking.

The response had led him here, but why?

Castiel looked around, feeling his chest begin to tighten at the thought that it had all been nothing more than a trick.

“Acheron?”

A noise. The sound of rocks shifting somewhere around the edge of a narrow trail. Heart hammering in his chest, Castiel stumbled along rocks and over dead shrubs, eyes straining in the growing gloom.

His breath caught in his throat as he reached a small plateau.

A figure stood not six feet away near the crest of a rising trail. Tall, broad and strong, they wore a fine tunic of deepest black. A cloak, dark as the surface of a midnight ocean, covered their shoulders. Their hair was likewise black, and their face was devastatingly beautiful.

If it hadn’t been for the whites of the eyes, Castiel wouldn’t have known, and even still he wasn’t so confident. Though the man was standing frozen, his eyes wide and his lips parted—though his essence screamed of Acheron—he was so utterly different that Castiel didn’t know for sure…

Not until he drew close, and laid a gentle hand on the figure’s strong jaw.

“It is you…isn’t it, Acheron?”

A noise like a strangled sob escaped Acheron’s lips. Drawing Castiel into his arms, he shook like a frightened child, power radiating from him in waves that nearly made Castiel dizzy.

He felt like Acheron, he spoke like Acheron; the musky spice of his body—like something of the deep ocean—was of Acheron. And when he felt the man’s voice rumble in his chest, all doubts flew from Castiel’s mind.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Acheron whispered, his lips against Castiel’s ear. “I was so scared, Castiel. Everything changed after they…”

“Shh,” Castiel whispered, holding onto Acheron for dear life. “It’s over now.” He looked up into Acheron’s bright, white eyes, which glowed with the fire of the stars. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to stop them.”

Acheron shook his head, and softly kissed Castiel’s lips. Castiel’s body soared at the contact—how he’d starved for this.

“You weren’t holding the knife,” Acheron said. “I only wish that I’d fought harder to save Styxx.”

Castiel looked around the darkening mountain trail, expecting to see Acheron’s twin somewhere.

“What happened to Styxx?” Surely if Acheron was a god—if his being had been linked with Styxx’s, as Apollymi had said, then he would be immortal and alive as well.

Pain lined every detail of Acheron’s face.

“I don’t know. That’s all I’ve been doing since I claimed my birthright. My mother—my real mother—told me that our souls were linked, but…”

Castiel sighed, his head nestled against Acheron’s chest. He let his wings unfurl, and closed them around Acheron’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Acheron whispered.

“I’m here now,” Castiel said. He cast a hateful gaze at the heavens. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Acheron smiled, and although it served to light up his whole face, the tragedy of everything he’d endured was so deeply carved that the gesture did little to take away from the deep sorrow. Still, he continued to hold Castiel to him as the night deepened around them.

A million questions raced through Castiel’s mind; even as Acheron whispered softly to him, he couldn’t help but give into lingering doubts. There was something missing here in his love’s resurrection, and he didn’t at all like the mysterious absence of Styxx. But he was too content to be here in Acheron’s arms once more, and too determined to stave off the threatening memories of how bloody and desecrated Acheron’s body had been in Apollo’s temple.

“What now?” Castiel asked.

“I want you to come home with me,” Acheron said softly.

Castiel frowned. “Didymos? I thought I destroyed it.”

Acheron chuckled. “No. Not Didymos. My home. My sanctuary. I’ll tell you everything there. But…I’d like to sleep first. Maybe for a long time. I haven’t been able to sleep in so long, Castiel. Not without you by my side.”

Castiel would strike down the world a hundred times over if it meant that he could be in Acheron’s embrace like this.

“I’ll go anywhere with you,” he said.

Smiling in that secret, sad way once more, Acheron held Castiel tightly. A moment later, both of them vanished, leaving the newly healed Earth to its own devices for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter and an epilogue left! I originally intended to have God appear as androgynous, but I liked the idea of Chuck making an appearance.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	21. Chapter 21

Castiel dreamed a million dreams as he slept the remainder of the morning in Acheron’s arms. He could feel a million feelings and hear a million thoughts and prayers and wishes. When he woke, nestled in the warm blankets of the dragon’s nest, he felt as if he’d been asleep for millennia, and he was also thoroughly confused.

The rush of the shower from the adjoining bathroom alerted him to another’s presence, but now he found that he didn’t even need to stretch his power to feel that it was Acheron. He was as aware of Acheron’s presences as he was his own sense of reality.

They really were bonded, and the thought brought a smile to his face. He could hear Acheron softly singing, his voice a whipped cream and glass shards tenor that reverberated from the tiled bathroom to the main bed chamber.

“… _love is in the water, love is in the air, show me where to look, tell me will love be there_ …”

Castiel stood and padded softly across the nest. The bathroom in the Drakos’ chambers wasn’t nearly as large as Acheron’s, but nonetheless it would have put the Vanderbilt’s to shame.

Leaning against the mellow gold tile, Castiel watched through the transparent glass as Acheron showered. The marks along his back hadn’t faded—they never would, not that Castiel felt any displeasure at that. Acheron’s scars were a testament to his being a survivor, and he only loved the god all the more for it.

Cas lingered, enjoying the view of water running down Ash's naked body. With a smirk, he flexed his powers. The water temperature changed for a moment, turning chillingly cold. Acheron yelped, and leapt back from the spray. He looked around wildly, spied Castiel watching him, and then grimaced.

“There are other ways to get my attention, angel,” he said, poking his head out from behind he sliding glass door.

“But it was funnier this way.” Cas closed the space between them and stepped into the shower. The water, once more pleasantly hot, felt like heaven against his skin. He turned, allowing the spray to hit him full blast in the face. A moment later, pain seared across the skin of his backside.

He whirled around.

“Did you just…”

Acheron smirked. “What? Smack you on your beautiful ass? Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s never happened to me before.” He frowned, and rubbed the sore spot on his offended skin. “I do understand why the babysitter enjoyed it when the pizza man did it to her, now.”

Acheron’s laugh echoed around the shower. He wrapped his arms around Castiel, holding him to his body as the shower spray belted down on them. Acheron pressed a soft kiss to Cas’s shoulder, and whispered, “You’re all mine now. Is it terrible of me that I still can’t really believe that?” 

Cas covered the hands over his waist with his own.

“I think this is what Dean would refer to as a ‘serious adjustment period.’ Not just my powers, but…well, not being alone ever again.”

“Did you ever think this is what the outcome of you coming to New Orleans would be?”

“Never in a million years, Acheron.”

They stayed in the shower only long enough for Acheron to help clean Castiel off. Though the heat and the nearness were intoxicating, and the feel of Acheron’s hands roving over his body made him hard as a rock, there were things to attend to that day. In any case, Castiel knew for a fact that he and Acheron would have plenty of time for one another in the years to come.

“Probably shouldn’t wear this,” Ash said, examining the bloody shirt that he shown up to Sanctuary in.

Cas, pulling on his own pair of sweats, tossed Acheron the _Nazareth_ t-shirt he’d worn when he’d left Katoteros the afternoon before.

“It _is_ yours, after all,” Cas said at the questioning look on Ash’s face.

“But what’ll you wear?”

Cas gestured at his sweats in answer.

“You’re really going to walk around shirtless down there? It’s brunch by now.”

“I’d rather you not be uncovered,” Cas said, kicking the blankets at his feet. “I know you don’t like it when people stare. At least if they see me…”

He frowned.

He had nigh-limitless power as Acheron’s consort now. Why shouldn’t that include a little instant shopping?

Focusing, he made a flurrying gesture in midair with his hand. A moment later, his fingers caught the hem of a white sweatshirt.

Ash arched his brows. “Five finger discount from the metaphysical side, baby?”

“I’ll return it after I find something else to wear,” Cas said. “Besides, I procured this from the loading bay of a Wal-Mart in Massachusetts. It’s not as though that company is hurting for inventory.”

Acheron finished tugging on the rest of his band shirt, crossed the floor, and placed a searing kiss on Castiel’s lips.

“Clever angel,” he said. “My clever angel.” He paused, took Cas’s hand in his, and examined the back of his ring finger. “If we’re going to be together for eternity, we might as well do it the right way.”

Taking a step back, Acheron deftly passed one palm over the other. When he sank to one knee, embarrassed heat rushed to Castiel’s face. And when Acheron opened his hand to reveal a ring, Cas thought he would really die.

“Acheron, is this really—

“Yes. I want you to be mine in every way, Castiel.” He held the ring up. The band was solid sterling silver; set into the top was the most unusually beautiful stone Castiel had ever seen: a perfect square cut of what appeared to by onyx, it shifted to tones of deepest blue like the night sky. Speckles of white and blue like stars shimmered within the stone; it was if Acheron had captured a fragment of the universe itself.

“Marry me, Castiel.”

Acheron’s eyes shone with unconstrained devotion. Cas felt centuries of history—loss, longing and love—rise within his chest like a phoenix.

“Yes,” he said at once. “Of course.”

Ash smiled, and Cas knew he would wrestle the embodiment of all evil if he could see that smile again.

Whether it was close association with Dean instilling him with the sense of it, or just an abundance of emotion, Castiel couldn’t help but say, as Acheron slipped the ring onto his finger, “Why am I the one with the stone?”

“Because,” Ash said, smirking as he got to his feet, “you’re my wife. The wife gets the rock.”

“Wife?” Cas cocked his head to the side and deliberated for a moment. “I suppose I can live with that. I should warn you that I’m not very good at making dinner.”

“That’s okay, baby. Simi can do the honors. She’s always wanted her own barbecue.”

“I’d like to get you a ring too…”

“We can go shopping for one.”

“Shopping?”

“Of course. I’m jonesing to show off my betrothed.” He twined his fingers through Castiel’s. “Speaking of which, we should probably head downstairs before Aimee decides to barge on and throw a fit when she sees the mess all over the place.”

“Yes. Informing her that there’s blood and semen over everything will go over much better in person.”

Laughing, Acheron and Castiel left the dragon’s nest. Cas could feel the energies of every species living with Sanctuary’s many, many rooms—could feel the clement weather beyond the building. He sighed contentedly as he and Acheron descended the stairs towards the bar. This was his life now—the rest of his eternity—the thing that he had craved with every fiber of his being and ravaged himself, the afterlife and the world over.

Evidently, Castiel and Acheron’s ascent from the dragon’s nest had been expected; they found several tables pushed together in the main dining room. Not only were Sam, Dean, Charlie and Simi there, helping themselves to a late breakfast, but several Dark Hunters also sat at the assembled chairs, gulping down coffee, bickering and arguing over nothing. Castiel recognized Valerius Magnus, sitting next to a stunning red head. Across from him—and the appearance of the man was enough to make the angel’s draw drop—was Zarek. His wife Astrid was seated on his lap and feeding him pieces of pancake off the end of a fork. Next to these two were Kyrian of Thrace and another red headed woman, the twin of the one seated near Valerius.

Cas counted Julian of Macedon and a beautiful brunette; the Celtic warrior Talon was tickling a shapely woman in a flowing skirt and tie-dye shirt; a curly haired, strawberry blonde woman stared pensively at the brooding form of Wulf, the Viking warrior; Fang’s brother, Vane, was massaging the shoulders of a curvaceous woman engaged in deep conversation with Charlie.

All these unexpected guests were to say nothing of the bevvy of children racing around the room and dangling from the legs of the Katagaria and Arcadian’s trying to lay out plates of food and drink.

At the foot of the stairs, Cas turned to Acheron, but Ash looked just as stupefied by the impromptu party. “I didn't invite them. I was with you all night and morning."

“I invited them!”

Aimee bounded towards them. Her sparkling eyes caught the ring on Castiel’s finger and she let out an excited squeal. “And oh my God if he didn’t put a ring on it!” Before Cas or Acheron could so much as blink in surprise, Aimee turned to the room at large and yelled, “YOU GUYS, THEY’RE GETTING MARRIED!!!”

The room exploded in a tumult of sound and activity. Simi let out a shriek of delight and flew above the heads of all assembled; both Castiel and Acheron found themselves pulled into the demon’s excited embrace.

Somehow they were ushered from the stairs in a sea of hugs and thumps on the back.

Aimee plopped herself into the seat next to Fang as Castiel and Acheron took to chairs next to a beaming Dean, an excitedly chatting Charlie, and, strangest of all, a groaning Sam, who was lying with his head in his arms on the table.

“What’s going on?” Ash said.

“Isn’t obvious, Broody McBrooderson?” said Aimee. “We spread the word that you finally settled down, and people wanted to congratulate you.”

Acheron stared at her. “But how did you know—

“C’mon, T-Rex,” Fang said. “This building is filled with people who are about a twelve on the senses scale. We smelled you. Both of you. What you turned into. It didn’t take much to put two and two together and figure out what happened.”

Acheron stared around at the assembled Dark Hunters and their wives. Comprehension broke on his face like a rising dawn. “All of them…” He looked as if he were about to cry, and Cas seized his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Yes,” said Aimee. “All of them. All of us.”

“You went through hell for us, T-Rex,” said Kyrian. “I never would have found Amanda if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Yes you would have,” the woman called Amanda said cheerfully. “We _did_ wake up handcuffed to one another, after all.”

“And Astrid and I would never have survived Thanatos had it not been for you,” Zarek added softly.

Dean clapped Acheron on the shoulder. “Face it, tiger--you just hit the jackpot. All these people here fucking love you, man.”

Dean may have said it with his usual bravado, but Castiel knew that the words had impacted Acheron on a profound level. Ash had often thought it simply his duty to sacrifice his dignity and body to free his men and women from Artemis’s grasp. Never in his life would he have thought he’d done it out of friendship. Now, with all these people here--people who were a mere fragment of the good he'd done in the world--he was faced with evidence that he wasn't the worthless, solitary tsoulus that Artemis and so many others had tried to convince him of being.

“But,” Dean said, his expression becoming dark, “before you two kids go running off, you better get my blessing first. You may both be high and mighty beings, but I've tangoed with the worst of them before. I've gotta think about my sweet little Castiel's virtue.”

“Dean,” Charlie said with a derisive roll of her eyes, “give it a rest...besides, I think it's a little late for that.”

“Hey, c’mon, I was just yanking their cranks.” He met Acheron’s gaze steadfastly. “You’ve got my blessing, big guy. I'd say treat him right, but you aren't giving me any reason to believe that you won't."

Sam let out a strained laugh from the shelter of his arms.

Despite the overwhelming happiness he felt, Cas couldn’t help but ask in concern, “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine,” Charlie said. “And he’s also promised never to use alcohol as an emotional crutch.”

“Can you blame me?” Sam groaned, looking around at the assembled former immortal warriors and shapeshifting beings. “This is a magic carpet ride to a whole new world I never knew.”

Simi, hovering over Ash’s shoulder, said, “Is Monkey Man going to be Simi’s Mommy now?”

“Oh my god,” Castiel muttered.

“He’s a lot of things now, Simi-ki,” Ash said.

“Now that you mention it,” said Fang, “ _what_ exactly are you? You don’t smell like anything I’ve ever sniffed out in my time. And after last night’s little adventure, you’re definitely not like any angel I've encountered while running around for Thorn.”

Castiel shrugged, taking a cup of chicory coffee offered to him by Vane’s wife. “I don’t really know what I am. A product of three worlds, I guess: angel, Atlantean, and vampire.”

“You’re a lot more than that, baby,” Acheron said softly.

Sam lifted his head and looked between Ash and Castiel with bleary eyes. He turned to Dean and asked, “Wait, what did he say?”

Dean leaned in close, almost to Sam’s ear, cupped a hand around his lips and yelled, “HE SAID HE’S MORE THAN AN ANGEL, SAM!”

Sam actually let out a strangled cry, his head thumping to the desk, muttering about fratricide.

“You’re you, Castiel,” said a voice from the end of the table.

A hush sounded over all those assembled as every head turned to the source of the voice. Dressed in a loose fitting white button up and a pair of candy-striped swimming trunks, Savitar looked as if he should have been at a beach party as opposed to a tavern like Sanctuary. But his eyes glowing and iridescent lavender, looked at Castiel and Acheron with something that Cas thought was like pride.

“Who’s he?” Charlie asked in confusion.

“A friend,” Savitar said, getting to his feet. “And believe me, I don’t mean to bring a damper to this festivity. God knows that we need more happiness in this world. But you weren’t just given these powers for the love of it, Castiel. You too, Ash. Artemis is dead now—beyond dead. There are going to be repercussions, not least of which being that a lot of souls done grave injustice are going to be left screaming for help.”

Cas turned to Acheron, his eyes wide. Of course there was a catch—there always had to be a catch.

Dean, however, didn’t care dick for the aura of power radiating from Savitar’s body. 

“Hey, Mary Sunshine—you wanna bring that little ray of joy over to the cancer ward of the children’s hospital while you’re at it?”

“Dean!” Cas hissed. But Savitar only offered Dean an understanding smile.

“You misunderstand me, Mister Winchester. I want Castiel and Acheron to have this happiness more than anything. I wouldn’t have looked the other way if I hadn’t. But there are still enemies out there on both fronts. Still beasts of the night to fight. Apollo is going to be furious. There’s also Stryker to contend with, and Nick.”

Dean scoffed. “Nick? A big bad named Nick? Christ, give me a minute while I add that to my list of frat boy names to run away from really fast.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Acheron asked.

Savitar smiled, but it was Castiel that he addressed next. “Stand against them. Be the voice that Artemis wasn’t willing to be. Lead them the way she never would. Not as accursed footmen, but as warriors—brothers in arms.”

Cas got to his feet, the understanding all but shocking him.

“You mean I’m—

“Yes,” Savitar’s smile widened. “You’re _his_ consort now, Castiel. He’s _their_ king. But you? You’re their god. They do not come to him anyway but through you.”

Cas stared at his hands. He’d wanted power like this for so long—as a way to anesthetize that hollow space within him that had been left when he’d fled from Acheron’s side. Now that he had it, it seemed like such a tertiary byproduct of what mattered most—of the beautiful man now turning his shining white eyes to him.

Looking around the room, Castiel saw that every eye was on him.

He faced Savitar once more, and nodded.

“Of course I will. But where do I start? How do I—

Three chairs all scraped back at the same time. Dean, Charlie and Sam all got to their feet, although Sam had to balance himself against Dean’s elbow to stop himself from toppling forward and squishing a still hovering Simi.

“Start with us,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Charlie added. “We’ve already got some experience in the field. Might not be with anything this heavy and—if you’ll pardon the objectification—aesthetically pleasing.”

“We’ve died before,” Sam added. “All three of us. And if it’s injustice you need, we wrote the book on it." 

Castiel stared. He couldn’t put them in anymore danger than their lives as hunters already had them in. He looked into Dean’s eyes, and felt all those decades of hard living and loss.

“I can’t,” Castiel said. “I can’t risk any of you.”

“So why don’t you just make them Dark Hunters?” Valerius’s haughty voice floated from somewhere near the middle of the table. Cas turned to stare at the former Roman prince. Valerius’s wife cast him a look that plainly showed her discontent with him having spoken at all.

“As much as I hate to agree with him,” Kyrian said, “he has a perfectly good point. There aren’t very many rules that you have to abide by when you’re a Dark Hunter.”

“It’s not that simple,” Castieal said. “It’s an oath; a bargain. To become a Dark Hunter, you have to offer your soul, and if you think I’m taking the souls of my family—

“Who said anything about taking souls?” Valerius said. “Weren’t you listening to Savitar? You don’t have to do it the way Artemis did it. She kept our souls on a tether because it made her the one in control, and you don’t strike me as the controlling type.”

Cas looked from Acheron—whose brows were furrowed as he digested the information—to Savitar, who still stood back with that placid smile on his face.

It all made such perfect sense. Yes, he would have to sever the souls of Sam, Dean and Charlie, but they didn’t have to be soul _less._ They could be master of their own fates—without souls but with the chance to reclaim them whenever they wished. They would be safe, they would be stronger. No longer would the threat of Hell hang over their heads. 

One last time, Castiel looked to Acheron, needing his guidance.

Ash met his gaze, and a small smile spread across his face.

“No strings, baby. There’s no way to punch holes in this. Hell, they might even become something stronger than Dark Hunters, given that you’ve got the touch of Heaven in you.”

“If that’s not enough, then here” Dean said, and promptly sank to one knee. 

Cas’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Dean, come on, this isn't--

Charlie followed suit; the expression on her face plainly said, “ _bring it on_ ,” and Cas didn’t know whether to hug her and try and ward her off.

Sam too sank to one knee, and he didn’t even falter in the attempt.

“You took me from Hell,” Dean said, his voice the stone edge of serious. “You freed me from a century of torture—saved me when I thought I was a monster. I’ve spent every year since trying to make it up to you, and every time it’s gone sour. I want to do this for you, Cas.”

“And you brought me back to life,” Charlie said. “You gave me another chance to prove to myself and everyone else that I could be something other than the runaway hacker.”

Sam crooked a grin. “You siphoned Lucifer out of me, Cas. You never gave up on me when I came back after the Pit. You’re family, man. In case you haven’t gotten the memo by now, we don’t give up on family in this…uh…family.”

It was fortunate that Acheron chose that moment to put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders; Cas felt as if he would collapse from the gratitude that welled up within him at the words his family spoke.

He glanced at Savitar for one last moment of reassurance—sank closer into Acheron’s touch.

Clearing is throat, Cas said, “Show me your tattoos.”

Sam and Dean shrugged their jackets off; both lifted up their t-shirts, exposing the possession tattoos on their chests. Charlie hiked her shirt up, displaying the same dark tattoo on her hip.

“Mmm,” someone—Valerius’s wife—purred. “Two shredded dudes and a beautiful, fiery redhead. They’re going to fit into this world like peaches and cream.”

Castiel held out a trembling hand. Acheron covered the back of Cas’s knuckles with his fingers, calming the shakes and guiding him as he pointed Sam, Dean and Charlie.

Prickling electricity filled the air; Sam, Dean and Charlie all gasped, their eyes widening. Three orbs of light, no bigger than golf balls, issued from their chests, green for Dean, blue for Sam and pale gold for Charlie. They hovered before their hosts for a moment; Castiel gave a deft twist of his wrist, and the orbs sank into the skin over each tattoo. Lines curved and arched like a brand over the black lines of the possession marks; for a moment, they shone like colorful fire. Then the heat in the room diminished, and the lights—the souls—faded, superimposed over the black sigil of the anti-possession tattoos.

“Dude,” Dean whispered, looking at the mark in awe.

Where once the flames surrounding the circle had been brief sparks, they were now six lashing tongues of fire. The star in the central circle still criss-crossed at each joining line, only now three bolts of lightning twined through the center. At the eastern and western points of the circle, imposed behind the remaining flames, were two arching wings—Castiel’s contribution to the new sigil of the Dark Hunters.

“They’re _your_ souls,” Cas said. “Not in you, but still a part of you. Your Achilles heel, and your Atlas strength.”

Charlie ran her tongue over her teeth. 

“Holy shit,” she said. “Fangs. It’s like I’m in one of those paranormal romance novels I used to read my mother in the hospital.”

“Can we really not go out in the sun anymore?” Sam asked as he got to his feet. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Like we ever did much of that to begin with.” He strode towards Cas, and put a solid hand on his shoulder. “Your warriors.”

Castiel shook his head. “My family.” He gazed around the room, and once more saw that the former Dark Hunters and their wives were watching with approving looks. They were all his family now. He’d joined into their ranks when he’d drank of Acheron’s blood.

Savitar clapped his hands together.

“Excellent. As for the all the dour shit I spouted earlier, don’t go looking for trouble right now. When you’re a Dark Hunter, it tends to find you. Just be vigilant and be prepared. But for now, I think the two of you--” he nodded at Castiel and Acheron “—have a wedding to plan. I suggest a putlock. I’ll bring a pig roast.”

Savitar turned, prepared to depart back to Neratiti.

“Wait!” Acheron called him back.

Savitar looked over his shoulder.

“Sav…I know I’ve asked you this before, but…do you have any idea what happened to Styxx? I want him to be there when Cas and I are joined.” 

Sadness crossed the Cthonian’s lavender eyes. Unlike Apollymi’s earlier denial, Castiel actually believed Savitar when he said, “No, Ash. Believe me, if I did, you would be the first person I told.” On that note, he turned, and walked through the door and away from the mortal realm.

Acheron did not look pleased. Cas kissed him softly, and whispered, “We’ll find him. I promise you.”

Ash smiled, and guided Castiel back to his seat as the conversation began to buzz at the table around them. “I know. Whatever way we find him, we'll find him together.”

Twining his fingers through Acheron’s once more, Castiel said, “Yes. Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! There's only the epilogue left now.


	22. Epilogue

Deep in the bowls of Kalosis, Apollymi the Destroyer basked in the knowledge that Artemis—long past the point of being the bane of her existence and simply being a reprehensible bitch—was dead. Given her situation, devoid of most company aside from the Spathi warriors, Apollymi never had reason to celebrate on the best of days. Now, she couldn’t help but smile as she lounged before the bone-carved mirror in her grand bedchamber. 

Millennia had passed without hope for recourse from her prison; now she felt as if something were finally going her way, and it was all thanks to Castiel.

She loved the angel, adored him, and was supremely grateful that he and Apostolos were so deeply in love. Like any mother, Apollymi only wanted what was best for her boy, and Castiel was certainly the best.

Recalling the last time she’d contacted the angel, Apollymi paused in the act of brushing her silvery-white hair.

Frowning, she waved her hand over the surface of the mirror, seeking the halls of Katoteros. She found the former home of the Atlantean pantheon deserted. Apostolos was probably among the world of mortals. Any other time, Apollymi would have been furious with the only other alternative being that her son was captive in Olympus. Now, she had no reason to fear.

Still, she couldn’t help the constricting guilt that caught at her throat.

Castiel had inquired after Styxx, the mortal child that Acheron had been bound to. Apollymi held no love for the spoiled prince; for all she knew, the bastard had spent a life being pampered, while her beloved Apostolos had been subjected to cruelty untold.

Now, however, she was wiser…and far, far more regretful for the spontaneous actions she’d taken when Apostolos had come back to life all those centuries ago.

Apollymi bit her lip. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she waved her hand in front of her mirror once more. She let her essence, her shadow—the only thing that could travel beyond the walls of Kalosis, and even then only to realms not of the mortal kind—travel outwards. She spiraled through countless planes of existence, until, finally, she landed in a world wild, primordial forests and cruel, towering mountains. 

Apollymi’s shadow shimmered through the air, moving ever steadily through the green. She could hear beasts and birds in the trees and shrubs around her, but did not falter until she reached a clearing surrounded by dense trees with twisting roots.

There, on a stone slab in the middle of the grass, lay a prone figure. Hair gold as sunlight spread from the man’s head, across the stone slab and onto the green grass. The immense tresses were threaded, at points, through the tangled branches of the trees overhead.

He was naked, breathtakingly beautiful—a spitting image of her Apostolos save for the blood red brand of a firebird imprinted into the flesh above his genitals.

Ghost-like, Apollymi hovered over the figure. Had it not been for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he would have appeared to be dead. His face, while handsome, was twisted in an eternal grimace of pain, as if he were—as Apollymi knew him to be—suffering through the worst nightmares of his life.

Apollymi felt the air behind her burn with a fell presence. Never one to be made afraid, she floated to the ground and looked behind her at the person who was both enemy and fellow conspirator in the fate of the sleeping, naked wretch behind them.

The man strode forward, hands clasped behind his back. His crisp business suit was the same shade of coal, merciless black as his beady, rat-like eyes.

“Ah. Did Mommie Dearest fear that the red-headed step child was having a nightmare? Or are you here to put the poor thing out of his many, many miseries?” He spoke in a smooth British eddy that belied his delight in cruelty and manipulation.

But Apollymi wouldn’t be cowed by him, not even if his barbs proved all too true.

“I was simply curious,” she said. “Given recent events, I thought he might have woken up.”

“You signed that waiver and gave it away the second you tired of him being your little pet. Shame, really. I don’t partake of the boy—well, not often—but I do delight in peeking into his dreams when my sap rises. He certainly makes a good cock sock for the demons who delight in his nightmares.”

Apollymi swallowed her rage down with tremendous effort.

The dark man stared at the sleeping form of Styxx as if he were a prized warhorse.

“He looks so like your chip off the old block.” The demon’s black eyes shifted Apollymi’s way, and an evil grin curled his lips. “Just a quick question, ‘tween us Hell beings…was the reason you held him captive really just so he could lick the dust from your sandals? Or was it something more…Freudian? I’m not one to put words in a person’s mouth, love, but you were reeling from sonny boy’s murder, and mourning does rather become a Jocasta complex.”

This time Apollymi wasn’t so good at containing her rage. Would that she cut strike the man down. As it was, with only her shadow to speak of her presence, she was as useful as a ghost. Curling her lip, she made to disappear, but before she could, the demon spoke once more. 

“A little hellbird told me that your sonny boy is due to tie the knot any day now. Seems he managed to win the hand of a pestilential Fallen Angel. It’s a complete paradigm shift, if you ask me. Although I must admit it speaks volumes to the power of…love.” The demon shuddered as if he’d spat out a mouthful of poisonous venom.

Apollymi stilled.

Castiel had truly done it.

He’d rid the universe of Artemis, freed Acheron from his blood bond and shifted the course of events.

She glanced back at the slumbering, eternally damned form of Styxx.

The demon, noticing her gaze, shook his head.

“Perish the thought, love. There are some things that can’t be undone.”

Sighing, Apollymi strode forwards until she hovered mere inches from the demon’s face. He was so short in comparison to her that he had to crane his neck to even look into her eyes.

“I don’t like you,” Apollymi said at length. “In fact, I despise you. But know three things. Firstly, if you continue to insist on calling me ‘love’ while I may not be in any state to kill you, I have only to give word to my Spathi and they will most likely rip that enlarged penis you traded your soul for off of your body. Secondly, people said for centuries that there was no way to break the blood bond between Artemis and Acheron, and look what happened—they were proven wrong. I accept my culpability in Styxx’s fate and have regretted it ever since I handed him over to Lucifer. But if recent events prove anything, it’s that stranger things have happened than waking a sleeping prince from centuries of damnation. And thirdly…”

Apollymi drew so close that she could see the flecks of red in the demon’s retinas. 

She grinned, and said in a chipper voice, “Your fly is undone.”

The demon glanced down, his face flushing in embarrassment as he fiddled with his zipper.

“Maybe don’t be so quick to goad your enemies after you finish masturbating, hm?” She feigned patting him on the cheek, turned, and floated away from the lush, primeval tangle of Purgatory.

“Goodbye, Crowley. If you need me, I’ll be in my own personal Hell. Gloating.”

With that, Apollymi reigned her shadow back in, and was soon gazing at her own victorious reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, ladles and jellyspoons, is the end! Thank you so much for keeping up with this unorthodox little crossover. Writing this fic has been a delight, and has seen me through the last three months. It's gotten me back into both the Dark Hunter and Supernatural fandom in a way I haven't been for many years now. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story as a whole. Thanks again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> It was a lucky thing that I'd been watching Supernatural for about six months before I picked up the first few books in the Dark Hunter series. Otherwise I might have been driven to further mental torment. 
> 
> Also, Ash is a little wounded puppy-bear who needs to be cuddled and wrapped in warm blankets. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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